


In the Service of No Country

by WolfOfAnsbach



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Cold War, Espionage, F/M, Gun Violence, Spies & Secret Agents, jughead is a bit of a jerk but he gets better, okay everyone's a bit of a jerk, the violence isn't that bad it's mostly typical spy movie gunfights, this was stream of consciousness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-02 20:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18818863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfOfAnsbach/pseuds/WolfOfAnsbach
Summary: The year is 1962. The Cold War threatens to blow hot. Tensions around the globe reach a fever pitch as the United States and the Soviet Union rattle atomic sabers.Nuclear physicist Dilton Doiley vanishes from his Mexico beach house, and all the signs point to a forceful abduction. MI6 operative Forsythe "Jughead" Jone is dispatched to solve what increasingly looks like a clandestine Soviet operation and if possible, bring the good doctor home. But the troublesome spy's assignment is complicated by an equally combative CIA operative, Elizabeth Cooper, tasked by her government with the same responsibility.As they navigate their perilous mission and establish a rocky working relationship, Cooper and Jones discover a plot greater and more insidious than they could have ever suspected. A plot that threatens not only their lives and their countries, but the future of human civilization itself.-----A Cold War spies, 007-type AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This all spilled out in like ten hours so forgive me if it's a little messy and rushed. I was a little annoyed with myself, considering all of the other WIPs I'm also working on (I've pretty much finished the Princess and the Chekist, though, so that's nice and one more weight off of my mind), but the muse wouldn't release me. 
> 
> I expect this'll shape up to be about three or four chapters. 
> 
> And a disclaimer, as always, my casting of certain characters as villains indicates no distaste for those characters. Quite the opposite, in fact. I love bad guys.
> 
> Fair warning, this story is super cliche but that's part of the fun.

_ Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico _

_ 1438 hours GMT  _

_ September 9th, 1962 _

This was supposed to be a vacation. Dilton Doiley laid his arms over the balcony railing and gazed out to sea, The waves were gentle here, lapping up against the shore at a steady, soothing tempo.

The black water flashed silver as it caught starlight. The coconut trees rustled. It was beautiful. _Should_ have been.

Doiley heard something shift and shuffle behind him. He spun around, hands shaking. His valet stepped out of the darkness.

“I—it’s me, sir. I apologize.”

Doiley took a deep, relieved breath.

“It’s fine. It’s fine.”

“Dinner is almost ready, shall I—“

“I’ll be down in a moment.”

He turned back to the balcony. Doiley feared he would never relax again. There was a sword hanging over his head. They told him he was paranoid. Perhaps.

But sometimes a man was right to be paranoid.

He should have just become a lawyer, like mother had said. His gaze swept from the sea to the palm trees to the high concrete walls of the compound. It had been just a typical beach house, but he’d ordered (and financed) its reinforcement.

There were forty guards, six at each corner of the compound, the other sixteen scattered about at opportune points. Two shadowed him at all times.

It wasn’t enough.

There was a sharp, short report. He didn’t want to believe it at first. Gunfire.

A shout from below.

He drew away from the balcony as if he’d been burned. Doiley flattened himself against the wall.

Suddenly the night was alive with light. The flash of rifles, like firecrackers. Doiley squeezed his eyes shut. Screaming. Shouting. He recognized the English and Spanish of his own guards. Then…was it German? Russian?

“No…no…no…” he chanted aloud, as if it were a magic incantation.

The gunfire chattered on. Doiley suddenly wished to hell he had bothered to learn what models his guards carried, so that he could tell who was still shooting. 

The door to his study burst open.

“Sir!”

Doiley nearly fainted in relief. It was Vivancos, his head of security. Retired Mexican Army. Good man.

Doiley struggled to his feet.

“Vivanco—“

“We must go, _señor_. _Now_.”

Doiley rushed forwards.

“Agreed.”

Outside, the gunfight continued. Doiley still heard shouts in English, which was good. It meant his men hadn’t been wiped out. Not yet.

Vivancos led him out of the study, rifle raised. They crept down the old manor house’s shadowy corridor.

When they reached the first floor, Vivancos gestured to the door.

“ _Señor_ , we will make for the truck, yes? Fifty paces from the front door.”

Doiley nodded and licked his lips.

Vivancos threw the door open. He rushed out, rifle held tight against his chest. He made it ten paces and then there was a crack like wood splitting, and Vivancos’ skull exploded. A shower of red spattered the fine Mexican sand. The soldier crumpled, still clutching his M14. Blood oozed from his shattered head. Bits of brain stuck to his arm and shoulders.

Doiley vomited.

Five dark figures dropped from the coconut trees. They wore gas masks, and moved like shadows. Black.

They advanced towards him, weapons raised. Doiley recognized kalashnikovs. Russian, then.

“Wait,” he bleated. “I’m no good to anyone dead.”

The head of the fire team yanked off her gas mask. It was a woman. Blonde. An eyepatch over her left eye. She smiled.

“We know, Dr. Doiley. We know.”

One of the other figures reached forward and grabbed him by the arm.

“So,” the woman said with a crooked grin. “You’d better come with us.”

* * *

_London, United Kingdom_

_2222 hours GMT_

_September 9th, 1962_

Forsythe "Jughead" Jones picked at his food. The girl across from him looked more than a little annoyed. He couldn’t blame her. Human interaction wasn’t his forte. Not cordial human interaction, anyways.

It was Italian which, incidentally, wasn’t his favorite. He skewered a bit of parmesan.

“So,” his date started. “What do you do when you’re not you know…busy?”

“Uh…” he ate the piece of chicken parmesan. “I dine in at expensive Italian restaurants.”

Ginger huffed.

“Look, if you’re going to be this way all night, I—“

Jones sighed. He closed his eyes and opened them. She was right. He _had_ agreed to the date. He didn’t really have a right to ruin it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just…you know, I’ve never been on an _actual_ date before.”

Her eyes went wide as if to say “really?”

And then Jones’ phone rang.

He slipped the little portable communicator out of his pocket and answered. Ginger stared at it in awe.

“What is—“ she began to ask.

“Prototype,” Jones answered. “Very crude prototype.” Then into the phone. “Hello?”

“Sorry to ruin…whatever it is you’ve gotten up to today, but the boss says you’ve got to come in,” came the familiar voice.  “I’m on a date, Ethel,” Jones said.

Ginger frowned. She stood up. Threw her napkin down on the table. Stormed out. Half the restaurant fell silent and watched her go.

“Actually,” Jones sighed. “I’m not on a date anymore.”

“Perfect,” Ethel said. “Because the boss is getting a little upset, and when _he_ gets upset you know it’s bad.”

A waiter shuffled up to him.

“ _Signor_ …” he said in an affected Italian accent.

“Yeah, just give me the check,” Jones said.

“What?” Ethel asked.

“It…nothing. I was talking to the waiter.”

“Well finish up with it and get over here.”

Jones sighed. He stood and tossed a few pounds on the table. He adjusted the lapels of his suit. The entire restaurant had fallen silent now, and was fixedly watching him. He nodded and smiled awkwardly, then strolled out the door.

* * *

Jones arrived at half-past ten. The building was unassuming. A typical office complex. 54 Broadway. During the world wars, it had been affixed with a sign that read: “Miramax Fire Extinguisher Company,” and it still remained. More of a wry joke now.

Jones took the elevator up to the fifth floor. He stepped out and again adjusted the lapels of his suit, as it was a bit of a habit.

Ethel Muggs, who worked coordinating MI6’s assets worldwide, and was not particularly fond of her job, as it took her away from the shootouts and near-death escapes, looked up.

“Oh. You made it. How was your date?”

Jones sighed.

“Unimpressed.”

“Her loss.”

“You mean that?”

“Sort of,” Ethel smiled.

“Can I head in?” Jones pointed to the door.

“Eh…he’s talking to Andrews Jr. right now, actually. So give him a minute.”

Jones nodded and dutifully took a seat, like a child at the doctor’s office.

“Any idea what he’s got for me today?”

Ethel shrugged.

“Something in Mexico, is what I hear. On the Yucatan.”

“I guess I shouldn’t get my hopes up about lounging on the beach?”

“Probably not.”

The door finally clicked open. Archibald Andrews stepped out, looking a little chastised. He nodded at Jones, and then at Ethel.

“Hey, Jug.”

Jones stood.

“Archibald.”

Archie patted him on the shoulder, and then hurried for the elevator.

Jones stepped into the office. Director Frederick Andrews raised his head to greet him. Archibald was his son as well as his subordinate, but anyone who worried about nepotism did not know Fred Andrews. The director was as principled as they came.

Jones took a seat.

“How’ve you been, son?”

Jughead rubbed his arm, exaggeratedly.

“Uh…I’ve still got plenty of bruises from Indochina, but besides that?”

“Well hopefully,” Director Fred Andrews reached for something beneath his desk. “This next assignment won’t leave you with too many more.”

He slapped a heavy folder onto his desk.

“What might that be?” Jones asked, already feeling a bit tired.

“Have you been to Mexico before, Jug?”

“Once or twice,” Jones responded. He watched the director with lidded eyes.

“I guess you’ll be paying another visit.” Andrews threw the folder open.”You ever hear the name Dilton Doiley?”

“He wear a pocket protector?”

“Oh, so you do know him?” Andrews ventured, hopefully.

“No, he just sounds like the type.”

Director Andrews responded with a sort of flat, not amused, but not _un_ amused look.

He selected a photograph from the folder. A nervous, gaunt looking young man with wide-rimmed glassed and short-cropped black hair. More or less what Jones had expected.

“He was— _is_ —a nuclear physicist. Employed by the United States government. Unofficially.”

Jones leaned back in his seat.

“So how’s this British business?"

“Well, he’s also a British national. And he’s gone missing from his vacation home in the Yucatan.”

“Impromptu trip to Tijuana?”

“Unlikely. Doiley’s a paranoid fellow. He’d hired a few dozen ex-special forces as private security.”

“Do they know any—“

“They’re all dead,” Andrews said. “And the walls of the place are riddled with bullets. Doiley missing.”

“When did this happen?” Jones asked, leaning in. _Now_ it was interesting.

“Last night. Mexican police have been ordered not to touch anything. You’ll be on our next flight to Cancun. Figure out who took Doiley. And why.”

Jones stood. He rubbed his neck.

“Can I take Archie with me?”

“He’s busy.”

“Dammit.” He had another thought. “I assume my usual license is in effect?”

“Do whatever you have to.” Andrews fixed him with a serious look. "As long as you don’t embarrass Her Majesty’s government in the process." 

Jones flashed a smile.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

_Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico_

_1330 hours GMT_

_September 10th, 1962_

The flight to Cancun took 12 hours on one of MI6’s faster planes. Jones laid back and took a nap and awoke when the wheels shuddered over rocky ground and the plane jolted to a stop.

He stepped out into the blazing equatorial sun. It was no airport—a little private airstrip surrounded by dense jungle. Jones heard the hooting of howler monkeys and the calls of wild birds. Sweat was already beading his forehead.

A truck awaited him. The driver, a Mexican tending towards middle-aged—and he assumed, an MI6 asset—waved.

“Welcome to _México, Señor_ Jones!”

Jones shook his hand.

“You know where we’re going, I hope?”

The Mexican smiled.

“Twenty minutes. Get in.”

He hopped into the truck. They cruised along the coast, the beautiful, crystalline blue water crashing gently against pearly strand. He almost felt himself get a little romantic. Jungle to the left, ocean to the right.

“I’ve…been told not to say too much,” the driver said. “But…it’s a bit ugly. The scene, I mean, _señor_.”

“Ugly’s my line of work,” Jones assured him.

Twenty minutes to the second, counting on his wristwatch. They pulled up before a magisterial, ancient manor house a few hundred yards from the sea. It looked Spanish. Colonial, probably. In all likelihood older than the country of Mexico itself. Jones took it in. White stucco walls, towering archways and domed ceilings. Red tiles.

Built around the house was a new addition. A massive, reinforced concrete wall crowned with barbed wire. The gate was reinforced steel. Somebody did not want company.

Surrounding the house, a few lorries of the Mexican Army, and a handful of civilian cars. Soldiers strolled about the premises, careful not to touch anything, as they’d been instructed.

Jones leapt out of the truck, his boots hit the dusty ground.

Someone greeted him—but it was not one of the Mexican officers. Or a Mexican at all.

A beautiful young blonde in a loose, climate-appropriate white blouse and a black skirt jogged up to him. She smiled, though it seemed less than enthusiastic. Green eyes twinkling. Jones smiled, despite himself

“Elizabeth Cooper. CIA.”

Jones had to keep from rolling his eyes. He’d hoped to avoid dealing with Langley. As usual, that was a vain hope. He extended his hand. She took it.

“Forsythe Jones, H—“

“I know who you are,” Cooper said. “Your reputation precedes you. That mess in Red China last year? They tell me you almost started World War III.” She seemed less than impressed by _that_.

“That is a _marked_ exaggeration,” Jones half-growled.

Cooper pursed her lips.

“Mmm,”

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of you,” he said. It was a bit rude, but he was a bit annoyed, now.

“You have, now.”

He sighed and shelved his misgivings.

“So Doiley was one of yours?”

“He was doing work for…certain someones. That’s all they’ll tell me.”

One of the Mexican soldiers opened the gate to the house. They strolled inside.

“Well, considering his area of expertise, I suppose it’s not too hard to surmise what kind of work he was doing. And why someone might want him to stop doing it.”

The inside of the compound was a charnel house. They stepped over a body missing half its face courtesy of a rifle round. The blood dried and clumped in the sand. Above them, a guard’s corpse lay flung half over the balcony, teetering precariously. A puddle of gore and brain had formed on the ground beneath him.

Cooper wrinkled her nose, and then covered it with a kerchief.

“It’s been a day,” Jughead said. “Bodies start to stink.”

“You don’t say.”

Jones bent down and picked up a spent shell casing. He turned it over between his thumb and forefinger.

“Kalashnikov.”

“Russian,” Cooper said.

“Right.” He turned to her. “All of the corpses are Doiley’s security?”

“Except one.”

“Show me.”

She led him around the back of the mansion, up a stairwell. At the head of the landing, flopped facedown over a potted plant splotched red, lay a big, blonde soldier in mottled green camouflage. He gripped a pistol in his left hand, a Soviet Makarov.

Jones forced a toe beneath the corpse and flipped it over. The man’s face was spotless. The bullet hole in his throat, torn wide open.

"The weapons were all Russian.” Cooper said. “Spetsnaz. GRU, probably. The uniform’s Soviet.”

“But who’s wearing it?” Jones knelt down next to the body.

Cooper shrugged.

“God knows.”

“Unfortunately, God’s not here for debriefing.”

She frowned at his blasé blasphemy. He chuckled.

“But we’re in agreement?” Cooper pushed.

“On what?”

“It was the Soviets.”

Jones looked up into the spotless blue Mexican sky.

“Maybe.”

“Well, the weapons used were soviet. The only corpse we have is wearing a soviet uniform. Pretty open and shut, right?” she said.

He turned to look at her.

“Doesn’t it look a little _too_ Russian to you?”

Cooper pressed her lips together, like she didn’t care to discuss the possibility. She sighed.

“You mean like it was staged?”

“I’ve dealt with the Soviets,” Jones said. “They wouldn’t advertise that they’d done this. They could have gotten ahold of non-Soviet weapons, easy. And they sure as hell wouldn’t have left one of their comrades’ corpses lying here in full uniform.” He nudged the body with the toe of his boot. “It’s like an amateur’s idea of a GRU operation.”

“I guess we ought to have someone load up the mystery Soviet, then?” Cooper shrugged again. “So we can try and figure out who he is?”

“‘We’?” Jones asked. Cooper scowled.

“You don’t have to cooperate if you don’t want to,” she said. “But the whole thing will be a hell of a lot easier if you do.”

“Agree to disagree on that,” he smoothed his hair.

Now _she_ rolled her eyes.

They surveyed the grounds, picking up further shell casings and examining the positions of the fallen corpses.

Betty jogged off to speak to a handful of Mexican soldiers. Jones couldn’t make out her words. The soldiers chattered in agreement.

Two of them loaded up the mystery Russian’s corpse and tossed it into the back of a waiting van.

Cooper pocketed a few shell casings. They produced an estimate—that Doiley’s guard had been wiped out in ten minutes or less. It had been a professional job, whoever had done it.

Jones was strolling back through the front gate, just behind Cooper, when he heard an engine start up. His ears perked. He whirled around. It was the van holding the Russian’s corpse. One of the Mexican soldiers in the driver’s seat. He peeled out.

“Hey!” Jones shouted.

The other soldiers, and even Cooper, just sort of watched, not comprehending. The soldier pulled out towards the road. He turned, saw Jones, and his face went white. The van killed, he desperately started it again, and the vehicle leapt as it trundled towards the cracked street.

“What are you doing!” Jones shouted. But he already knew. He was making off with the corpse.

He threw aside two soldiers and hopped into a waiting lorry. Turned the key. The van rushed off. Jones rushed after it. He slammed his foot into the pedal. The speedometer climbed. 20 miles. 40. 70. 90.

The van raced ahead, jumping and rattling. Jones gripped the wheel tight, and drew his service pistol. Even as he struggled to keep the swerving lorry in line, he leaned forward and fired through the windshield. It shattered, and glass blew back into his face. Blood trickled down his cheeks and forehead. He ignored it. His shot missed the van, which made a sharp turn down the jungle road.

Jones took the turn, the lorry nearly capsizing with the force of the hard bank left. The van came back into view. Jones fired again through the now vanished windshield. This round sparked off of the van’s hubcap and bounced harmlessly into the jungle. A flock of birds screeched and took flight.

“Damn you!”

Another shot. This one pierced the van’s rear, but did nothing to slow it.

Jones climbed up in his seat. He steadied the wheel with his knees, the truck swerving dangerously side-to-side, gripped his pistol with both hands, and fired lower. This one struck a tire. The van wobbled, nearly careened into the trees, but managed to right itself, limping along.

And even with a flat the van was still widening the distance between them, as the piece-of-shit truck fell behind. Forty meters. Fifty.

The van whirled around another sharp bend. A full U-turn.

Jones realized he would never catch it with a cry of frustration. Then he had an idea. The bank of trees in the middle of the U-turn. He would intercept the bastard. Was the jungle too thick? Maybe.

He swerved hard to the right. Crashed through trees and vines and bushes. The truck shuddered. Branches snapped and whirled around the hood. Jones kept his head low. He could see light on the other side. He broke through onto the road again, just as the van came barreling towards him. Jones crushed the pedal.

He slammed into the van at a ninety degree angle. Sent it flying across the road and back into the trees. His head jolted. Nearly felt his neck snap. The van was crushed against a heavy mangrove. Smoke poured from the hood.

Jones crawled out of his own totaled truck, leaking blood from a dozen places. He stalked towards the ruined van. The soldier leaned over the wheel, soaked in red. Jones tore the door open. He grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him out. The man gurgled, and Jones saw there was an ugly piece of glass sticking out of his throat.

“Shit!” he grabbed him by the hair. “Talk to me! Why did you take the body?” Then when he realized the man likely did not speak English: “ _Contestame_! _Quien eres? Porque robaste el cuerpo? Porque?”_

The man heaved and gasped and coughed up blood.

“L—l…es…m—mu…” then he fell silent.

Jones shook him again.

Nothing.

Another gurgle of blood.

And he was dead.

“ _Shit_!”

He arrived back at the compound ten minutes later, with the corpses of both the soldier and the mysterious Russian in the bed of the truck. The Mexican troops crowded round, gazing at the gory bodies with awe.

“This…” Cooper said, exasperated, as she took in the carnage. “Is why your reputation precedes you, Mr. Jones.”

Jones wiped blood from his forehead.

“Indeed.”

* * *

_Mexico City, Mexico_

_1833 hours GMT_

_September 10th, 1962_

_Flash._

The coroner photographed the Russian’s face from the profile. Jones watched from the corner. Was he someone important? Some flunky?

The coroner in Mexico City was an MI6 asset, so the body would go into the incinerator when this was done. Clean sweep. But first they needed to find out who he was.

Jones took up one of the instant polaroids.

“Well?” Cooper asked.

“I’ll Radiofax it back to London and see if we can get an ID,” Jones said.

“Let me send it to Langley,” Cooper said. “It’ll be faster.”

“London,” he insisted.

“La—“

He groaned.

“For God’s sake, why not both?”

She crossed her arms and huffed.

“Fine.”

It took a few minutes. Then Ethel called.

“Hey. Jughead?”

“Yeah.”

“The body you’re looking at is a GRU colonel by the name of Grigory Volkhov. He’s—well, he _was_ an attaché at the Soviet embassy in Cuba.” 

“Anything else?” Jones asked.

“That’s all I could dig up at the moment. Doesn’t look like he’s _too_ important.” Ethel paused for a minute. “Well, no more important than you expect a GRU colonel to be, at least.”

“Thanks, Muggs.”

Jones hung up.

“Well, that’s a start,” Cooper said.

“And that’s all it is,” Jughead said.

“Maybe not,” Cooper replied. “I’ve got— _we’ve_ got a contact in Cuba. Deep cover. He faked a defection a year ago and he’s been embedded with Castro’s government since.”

“Can you ring him?”

“Nah, they won’t let us chance a phone call. Like I said. _Deep_ cover.”

“So then…”

“Well…” Cooper said, almost sheepishly. He saw her foot fidget, like a kid working her way up to a hard question. “We could _go_ to Cuba.”

“What, just like that?”

She shrugged.

“You realize we’ll be shot on sight if they realize who we are, right?”

“Oh, _now_ you’re a paragon of caution?”

He sighed.

“I need to make another phone call. A private one.”

“To who?” she asked, suspicious.

“Just…please.”

Cooper nodded and exited the room.

He rung Ethel again.

“Look…there’s this girl from Langley here, and I really don’t want t—“

“Work with her, Jughead,” Ethel cut him off.

“But—“

“ _Work_ with her, Jughead!”

“Fine!”

He slammed the phone down. Stepped out of the room. Cooper was waiting, standing against the wall.

“Well,” Jones said.

“Well, what?”

“Well, pack your things, looks like we’re going to Cuba.”

* * *

_Gulf of Mexico off Havana, Cuba_

_0422 hours GMT_

_September 14th, 1962_

The boat idled three-hundred yards offshore.

“This is far as I go,” said the captain, a technically-off duty US Navy man.

Jones leaned out over the rail. The lightless shoreline was only just visible in the stark glow of the moon. He could see the black sea lapping at a sloping beach. The boat rocked in the gentle swells.

Cooper came up behind him.

“Motor dinghy?” she asked the captain, hopefully.

“I’m afraid not,” he said, apologetically.

Jones grimaced.

A moment later they were being lowered over the side in an inflatable raft, each holding a paddle. The captain saluted. They returned the gesture.

Then, arms burning, huffing, faces red, they began to row. The boat took off into the darkness, leaving a trail of foaming white sea in its wake. Jones suddenly felt extremely alone. Then he looked at his companion and he hated to admit it but—Cooper’s blonde head and flashing green eyes made him feel a little better.

The little craft pushed painstakingly nearer the shore.

Half an hour passed and they seemed hardly any closer.

“Row much?” he asked Cooper.

“Not on the job. My cousin owns a lake. We’ve won a few competitions.”

“Ah. That explains the moneyed vibe I got from you. And why you don’t look like you’re about to drop dead.”

She grimaced.

“Are _you_?”

“I wish.”

He forced his arms forward. The oars dipped into the water and propelled them another two or three feet. It was like sailing through maple syrup. The beach loomed just a _little_ closer.

“You sure this guy of yours is even going to know anything about Volkhov?” Jones asked.

“More likely than not. Seriously. Are you always such a pessimist?”

“How long have you been in this line of work?”

“Two years,” Cooper replied. “Well, less…strenuous work before that.”

“Yeah. Give it another two.”

At long last, they hauled the little raft up on the shore, slogging through waist deep swells. They buried the inflatable in a shallow hole, and then trekked through the thick foliage towards the nearest road.

They’d been provided with false papers in the very likely case they were necessary. Jones became Ausencio Camarasa, a mill hand from Cienfuegos, and Cooper became Isabel del Río, peasant from Baracoa. They were both fluent in Spanish, though Jones couldn’t vouch for either of their accents.

Only the very rare vehicle rushed by. Most Cubans did not own cars.

They trudged by the side of the road, raising their hands to hail the passing motorists in vain hopes of a ride. No such luck.

“Guess they don’t trust hitchhikers,” Cooper said.

“Well, they would be picking up foreign spies, so…”

“I prefer the term ‘operative’.”

“You’re a spook, Cooper,” Jones chuckled. “Own it.”

They walked the rest of the way to Havana, about three hours away. The city was beautiful, an old Spanish settlement lost in time. Baroque townhouses become common housing in the wake of the revolution. Ancient stucco churches plastered with revolutionary propaganda.

 _‘Obreros Cubanos! La Revolución les dara su libertad!—_ CubanWorkers! The Revolution will give you your freedom!’ splashed over an image of a Cuban _campesino_ wielding a rifle.

They walked the streets of the city for another thirty minutes or so. The city was by and large silent. A sense of paranoia inculcated by the bungled US invasion some months prior still held sway. It was not a good time to be a stranger in Havana. But hell, that was was the job.

A church bell tolled.

A group of about four soldiers loitered in an alleyway, rifles under their arms, mumbling and laughing quietly.

“Just be cool,” Cooper hissed

“I’m _perfectly_ cool, are _you_?”

They shuffled quickly past the soldiers, who watched them go, but never ceased their conversation. The two spies turned a corner quickly as they could.

Jughead used to think a lot, about how if he died on a day like this, his government would deny his very existence, and he would end up in an unmarked grave halfway across the world from home. But he’d gotten used to it. Occupational hazards.

They found the bar half-past midnight. It sat in the shadow of an ancient steeple. They stepped in through the doors and reeled back with the stench of cigar smoke and hard alcohol. It was packed, which was good. Harder to stick out. Cooper stood on her toes and scanned the crowd.

She identified their contact in the rear, sitting in a corner with two girls, a beer in hand, telling some story with the use of generous gesticulation.

Cooper grabbed Jones’ arm and led him in that direction. He didn’t protest. When the contact saw them coming, he waved away his company and stood, smiling broadly.

“Lizzie Cooper!” he exclaimed, in _English_. “How’s my favorite girl from Langley?”

“Keep your voice down!” Jughead hissed. “This is your ‘deep cover operative’?” Then to the man himself: “how the hell haven’t you been shot, yet?”

“Who’s the limey?” he snorted.

“This is Forsythe Jones, from MI6,” Cooper sighed. “Jones, this is Reginald Mantle.”

Mantle’s whole expression changed.

“ _This_ is Jones. ‘Blew up that Siberian dam’ Jones? Really?”

Jones glared at him.

“Yes, ‘almost started another world war in Hong Kong’ Jones,” Cooper said.

Mantle looked at him.

“Damn. What the hell’s your job, exactly?”

“What the hell’s yours? Drinking your way to a NATO-friendly regime change?”

Mantle shrugged.

“Enjoying the sunshine, wooing the _señoritas_ , listening in on the Russians.”

“Okay, Reggie, we’re here on serious business,” Cooper hissed.

“Eh, whatever,” Mantle made an odd, dismissive gesture with his right hand. “Sit down. I’ll get you two beers.” He ordered them their drinks and they sat. “So what brings you to _Cuba_?”

“You, unfortunately,” Jones grumbled.

Mantle leaned forward, smirking.

“Of course I do.”

“Reggie, what do you know about a man named Grigory Volkhov?” Cooper asked.

Mantle snorted.

“Volkhov? The guy from the embassy? Played cards with him a few times. He’s a pretty boring guy, in all honesty.”

“ _Was_ a pretty boring guy,” Jones corrected. “He’s dead.”

Mantle raised his eyebrows.

“Uh…oh. That’s too bad. How’d he die.”

“ _Ostensibly_ trying to kidnap a nuclear physicist from Mexico,” Cooper said.

“Huh,” Mantle sipped his beer. A rickety fan chugged overhead. “Doesn’t sound like Volkhov.”

Jones leaned in.

“No? Why not?”

Mantle lowered his voice, finally speaking with a somewhat conspiratorial tone.

“Well, according to my contacts at the embassy—and according to me, judging by the handful of times I met him, Volkhov wasn’t much of a soviet patriot. Not an ideologue and not a man of action. In fact…” Mantle tapped the table gently. “In the past few months, he’d been acting a little odd. Now, I never really thought much of it, just because I get so much goddamn info from the embassy nothing much really sticks out unless it’s _really_ big, but my guy tells me Volkhov had been disappearing a lot. For days at a time.”

“I’m sorry, disappearing?” Cooper asked, and cast a glance over her shoulder.

“ _Thought_ he was disappearing,” Mantle clarified. “Apparently the guy wasn’t great at covering his tracks—“ he thumped his chest. “Should have taken a few tips from Reggie Mantle. Anyways, he was heading on his off-days to—of all places—the US-of-A.”

“He was going to America?” Cooper asked, incredulous.

“Yep. Specially chartered boat. Either he pays off Castro’s guys or gives them the slip, I don’t know. All top-secret, of course. I doubt his own government would be too happy if they found out. Probably call him back to Moscow and shoot him.”

“And…where does he go when he takes these little sabbaticals?” Jones asked. He looked over his shoulder, now. The bar seemed no more suspicious than it had upon their entry, despite Mantle’s insistence on loud anglophone conversation.

“You’re going to love this,” Mantle said with a mischievous grin. “He heads to Vegas.”

Jones blanched.

“Vegas? The GRU Colonel we found dead at a Mexican beach house likes to take weekend trips to _Las Vegas_?”

Mantle nodded.

“A casino called the Lodge.”

Jones pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and jotted it down.

“Now, listen,” Mantle changed topics. “I’m a very busy man, an—“

“Busy with _what_?” Betty challenged.

“Well, since you’re _interested_ ,” he said in a particularly obnoxious way. “The Russians have been making some _moves_ on this little island, lately. Ever since our little uh…fiasco at the Bay of Pigs.”

Jones sipped his beer again.

“Great job you Yanks did there, by the way. Didn’t cock that one up at all.”

Both the Americans scowled at him. He smiled.

“What kind of moves?” Betty asked.

“Soviet ships pulling into Havana Harbor every day. Decks full of _very clandestine_ shipments covered in big tarps.” He leaned in closer, obviously enjoying this. “ _Missiles_. Washington's having a fit. This whole thing is going to go public, and when it does  _hoo_ boy, I can't say it'll end well."

“Missiles,” Jones repeated quietly. He knew that the US had recently stuck a number of nuclear-tipped missiles in Turkey and Italy. This sounded like a retaliation. Mantle was right. There was no way that would end well.

“Listen—“ Cooper pressed. “Is there any way we can talk to your contact?”

Mantle shifted uncomfortably.

“Well…”

“Don’t you _dare_ get lazy on us,” she threatened.

“Who is he?” Jones asked. It was good to get a full picture before one walked into anything.

“He’s a Cuban lieutenant,” Mantle said. “At the base just outside town. You probably passed it on the way in.” They had. “He’s probably busy tonight but…” he looked over his companions’ shoulders. “Ah what the hell.” Mantle stood.

Then the window exploded, there was the report of a rifle, and Mantle blew backwards, blood splashing from his chest.

Jones hit the ground. Cooper followed suit.

The bar erupted into panic. The patrons stormed out through the front door, screaming and shouting.

Mantle writhed and groaned on the floor, blood pouring from the ugly wound in his chest.

In a minute, the bar was empty. The sound of truck’s engines and men shouting surrounded the building. Cooper leaned down at Mantle’s side and examined the wound. Jones peeked out through the blinds.

Cuban soldiers encompassed the bar on all sides. Rifles aimed at every which way out of the building. He swore. This was Cooper’s fault.

“Hey,” Cooper hissed. “Mantle. Look at me, asshole.” He gripped her shirt, chest soaked red. “Look at me!”

Mantle grimaced.

“J-Jesus, Betty,” he gasped.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” she demanded, patting his shoulder.

Jones ran through his options. He pulled his M1911.

“ _Salgan del bar!”_ cried an officer through a bullhorn. “ _Sin armas!”_ Then in English. “Come out without weapons! Or you’ll be dead where you stand!”

“Christ,” Jones hissed. “Who the hell tipped them off?”

Cooper patted Mantle’s shoulder again.

“Hang on, Reggie.”

Smashing through a window or a door would have them gunned down in an instant. They—

Cooper ducked behind the bar. Then she reemerged holding two bottles of Tequila with rags jammed into the necks.

“You know how to use molotov cocktails?” she asked.

Jones smiled, despite everything.

“I’ve never had occasion.”

She handed him one of the bottles.

“Toss them. Then make a break for it.”

“Then what?”

Cooper shrugged.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Jones produced a lighter. He lit the wick on his cocktail. Handed it to Cooper. They lined up on either side of the window that had shattered when the soldiers opened fire.

“On the count of three?” he asked.

“Three.”

She agreed.

The soldiers squeezed off a few more warning shots.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Come out _now_!” the officer boomed.

The wicks burned down.

“Three!”

They hurled the improvised explosives. The bottles arced through the air, tails of fire swooping in their wake. They struck the ground at the soldier’s feet and shattered. Great sheets of flame billowed up. The Cubans fell back. The fire surged forward and engulfed about three men. They fell to the ground, wreathed in flame. Their comrades looked on in awe. Dropped their rifles.

“Now!”

Jones leapt out through the shattered window.

“Wait!” Cooper cried. “Mantle!”

Jones spared a quick look back into the bar. Mantle was still alive, struggling to stand as a glimmering pool of blood spread around him.

“Leave him,” he said, coldly.

“Bu—“

“He dies or we all die.”

He grabbed Cooper by the hand and pulled her along.

The soldiers were still in shock. Trying to extinguish their burning comrades. But when they saw their quarry jump into the open, enough gathered their wits and fired back. Jones squeezed off a few shots. They went wide, but it frightened the Cubans enough to throw off their own aim.

“The trucks!” Cooper shouted.

He ducked low and darted for one of the soldiers’ stalled trucks. Cooper followed close behind. The driver whipped his head around as they approached. He fumbled for his pistol. The other soldiers spun around, having been outflanked by the two agents.

Cooper raised her pistol and shot the driver through the head. Jones grabbed him by the shoulder and ripped the corpse out of the seat. He leapt in. Cooper clambered in after. Bullets shattered the windows and shredded the canopy. Jones shoved his pistol into Cooper’s lap, so that she held both their guns.

“I drive, you shoot,” he said.

She nodded.

He hit the pedal. They tore off, smashing aside one of the burning soldiers.

The remaining troops leapt into their own vehicles, and gave chase.

Jones took a hard left. Pedestrians threw themselves aside as he rammed the truck through a market stall and around the side of an old stucco church. Cooper leaned over the back seat, firing wild, desultory shots at the pursuant convoy.

“ _Alto_! _Alto_!” the Cubans kept shouting, though it was eminently clear their foes had no intention of surrendering.

Jones forced the throttle forward. Ground the pedal into the floor. The truck jumped, sped up. Sputtered. He wheeled around another block and took them speeding through an alley so narrow the old walls clipped the truck’s mirrors.

In the truck behind them, two soldiers stood, rifles on their shoulders, taking careful aim.

“Shit!”

_Ratatatatatatat!_

Jones ducked. Cooper did, too. Two rounds exploded between them, shattering their windshield and spraying them both with glass.

The soldiers kept firing, faces wild. Bullets pounded into the truck’s steel hide. The rear lights exploded.

Cooper squeezed off three rounds. The first two went wide. The third caught one of the soldiers in the chest. He stumbled back, dropped his rifle, and then fell over the side of the truck with a _crunch_.

“Yes!” Jones exclaimed.

Another insane turn. The truck actually turned on its axes and for a split second balanced on two wheels. Then it righted itself and bounced along.

He kept his route wild, nonsensical, even as he maneuvered the cramped, ancient streets of Havana toward his ultimate destination. More bullets. The air sizzled next to his ear. Cooper’s gun went dry, so she picked up his M1911.

“Where are you _taking_ us?” she demanded.

“Jose Marí International Airport!” He shouted.

“ _What?_ ”

He didn’t answer. Instead he took the truck over a narrow, rickety old bridge not meant to handle such weight. The convoy followed right behind.

Cooper fired again. She struck the driver of the first truck. The vehicle swerved, then went careening off of the road. It slammed into an adjacent stone wall, and then disappeared in a ball of orange fire.

The next truck in the convoy took the lead.

Another couple of turns. The airport loomed up before them. A modern structure. Concrete and steel. Jones charged towards the main gate, and then took a hard right. The trucks behind followed suit. Burnt rubber wafted into Jones’ nose.

He wheeled around the side of the airport, to the smaller tarmac out back. Bounced through a field of high grass. A row of smaller planes lined up on the runway. He hit the brake as they reached the tarmac. Hard. The truck jolted. He threw his door—bloody and bullet-riddled—open and jumped out. Cooper followed.

The trucks behind them stopped. The soldiers jumped out and opened fire.

Jones rushed for the nearest aircraft, a Soviet warplane. MiG-17.

He hoisted himself up onto the wing, bullets chewing up the ground beneath him. Helped Cooper up.

“God, please let this damn thing be fueled.”

“Do you know how to _fly_?” she demanded.

A few bullets glanced off of the MiG’s wing.

He spared her a look.

“Of course.”

He forced the cockpit open and hopped inside. She clambered into the back.

The soldiers rushed closer. Cooper fired over the wing. The soldiers fanned out and crouched low, avoiding her fire.

Jones flipped the ignition. He forced the plane’s throttle forward. The craft slowly—achingly slowly—pulled forward. He yanked the control wheel hard to the left, straightening it out on the tarmac. Bullets pinged against its sides.

“ _Alto_!” the soldiers were still shouting, like broken records. The plane crept along the tarmac. Jones forced the nose up. The wheels picked up speed. He saw one of the soldiers leap up onto the wing. Clamber towards the cockpit.

“Oh, shit.”

Before the soldier could fire through the glass—which would leave them well and truly screwed—he forced the cockpit open again.

Cooper shot him.

The man tumbled back onto the asphalt, dead.

Jones closed the cockpit again.

The plane sped up. The soldiers began to fall behind. Sped up faster. He forced the nose up. He moved the elevators forward. The plane was racing along, now. The last few bullets glanced uselessly off of the tail and the wings.

The nose lifted up, pointing to the sky. The wheels retracted. And they were airborne. Cooper whirled around, watching the soldiers shrink into impotent dots on the field below. The airport vanished into a dim grey blob. They climbed towards the moon.

The stars glittered.

Cuba fell away beneath them.

And they were free.

* * *

They flew in silence for about a half an hour, the Gulf of Mexico glinting beneath them like a great black mirror.

Finally Cooper spoke.

“Are you in the habit of leaving wounded comrades to die?” she asked, and she wiped the blood from her cheek. A cut sustained in the car chase. Flying glass.

“I’m in the habit of surviving,” Jones said, keeping his eyes on the heavens ahead. “And I didn’t hear much protest in the moment.” When she said nothing more he went on. To justify it to her or himself. “Mantle was a dead man. We saved our own lives.”

“Surviving’s worth your humanity?”

“Humanity? Jesus, Cooper. I saw you gun down half-a-dozen poor bastards whose only crime was wearing the wrong uniform. Let’s not talk about humanity, huh?”

“Why do you even do this job?”

“Does it matter?”

“Didn’t you think—when you _agreed_ to do things like this—that you were doing _something_ good? Serving your country? Helping people?”

He laughed. “We’re not ‘serving our countries’ or ‘helping’ anyone. Come on. Don’t be absurd. We’re playing empire. Right now we’re trying to track down a missing nuclear scientist not because my government or yours gives a single solitary rat’s ass about his welfare, but because they don’t want the Soviets picking his brain. That’s it. Hell, when we get him back they’ll probably shoot him just to make sure this never happens again. That’s what we do. Topple little nations that can’t fight back because they got a little cozy with the Russians. Shoot this chap or that one because he knows too much.”

“So that’s it? You’re just a hitman and a saboteur and proud of it?”

“I never said I was proud.”

“But you are.”

“Better an assassin and a saboteur who knows what he is than one convinced he's some dime novel hero.”

“Right,” she said coldly.

“That’s right.” Before she could say anything else—and before he could think any further on it, he said: “now, I’m going to have to land in _your_ miserable little country, and since we’re flying a Soviet plane, I’d greatly appreciate it if you could raise Miami on that radio and ask them to kindly not blow us out of the sky.

“Fine.”

And she did so.

* * *

_Miami, Florida, USA_

_1219 hours GMT_

_September 14th, 1962_

They landed at the USAF Homestead Air Reserve Base in Miami about another half hour later.

Jones leapt out of the cockpit, hair matted with his own blood.

A technical sergeant took them into the base proper and offered them water and a quick bite to eat.

“Where the hell’d you guys come from? In a Russian plane? All they told me was to let you land.”

Cooper put a hand on his shoulder and said: “that’s classified, son,” to a man probably five years younger than her at most.

“Well,” the sergeant went on. “This is all…way above my paygrade, but we’ve got some colonel from Cape Canaverel coming down here to…debrief you guys, I guess."

They thanked him and asked for some privacy.

“Well…we should probably leave before that colonel gets here,” Jones said.

“Uh…why? In fact, I probably ought to make a report to Langley about all of this and try to justify our little Havana shootout before I get demoted and sent to military prison.”

“Yeah…well…that’s exactly the problem. London’s going to be just as upset when they find out about…all of that. And I’d like to follow up what leads we have before Andrews can take me off of the case.”

“You seriously want to go to Vegas? Right now?” Cooper pointed at his brow. “You’re _still_ bleeding.”

“I don’t _want_ to go to Vegas.” He sipped his water. “But hey. It’s the job.”

* * *

_Havana, Cuba_

_1320 hours GMT_

_September 14th, 1962_

On a Havana terrace, looking out over the cobblestones splattered with blood and littered with the corpses of Cuban soldiers, the killer known as Penny picked up the phone.

She looked down at the remains of the little bar. The windows were blown out. There were great scorch marks out front where Cooper and Jones had tossed their molotovs.

The phone rang, once.

Penny puffed on her cigar. She fiddled with her eyepatch. Her aim was perfect—usually. But she’d aimed for Jones and hit that bastard Mantle, instead. No way she was getting rusty. It was just a fluke. No way she was losing her edge.

She’d timed her shot just as the Cuban Army arrived, hoping Jones’ death would simply be chocked up to the ensuing crossfire.

Then she’d stepped aside and let the Cuban Army do their thing, with the hope they would inadvertently take care of the problem for her. But they’d failed, too, naturally.

Finally, she got an answer.

“What’s the situation, Penny?” came the boss’s cool, commanding voice.

“Not great.”

“Oh?” he asked. He maintained his usual honeyed, easy tone. But his breath hitched. She could almost see his eyes widen. He sounded worried. Frightened even.

And she knew well what of.

“They gave the Cubans the slip. Off to Miami, I assume.”

She heard the boss drum his fingers on his great mahogany desk.

“And from there?”

“Well…if Mantle told them what he knew about Volkhov…I think I can guess.”

“Yes…” the boss said. “So can I.”

“I guess I should be after them, then?”

“I guess you should.”

Penny smiled. She tapped her cigar.

“Haven’t been to Vegas in a while.”

“Well, enjoy yourself while you’re there. But _take care_ of this problem.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Lodge.”

Penny hung up.

* * *

_Louisiana, USA_

_2119 hours GMT_

_September 14th, 1962_

The train chugged westward through the Louisiana countryside, trailing thick black smoke.

“So what business does a GRU colonel have in Nevada on the weekends?” Jones asked. They seat near the back of the car, having gained their spot on the train by virtue of flashing some official-looking ID. They huddled close together, though it seemed unlikely anyone in the compartment was listening in. Sugarcane fields and swamps raced past.

"Well normally…I’d say defection,” Cooper replied. “But when he turns up dead at an crime scene in Mexico…”

“Still think the Russians are behind it all?” Jones asked.

“Still the prime suspects, in my mind.”

“I’ve my own suspicions…about _your_ government.”

Cooper frowned.

“Why would the US want to kidnap Doiley? Or—fake kidnapping him. He was already _working_ for us.”

Jones shrugged.

“I don’t know. You’re the CIA woman. But think about it…the US lures this disgruntled GRU man with promises of asylum, maybe a plum job in intelligence somewhere. Instead they rope him into this mission, kill him, leave his corpse behind, and pin the whole thing on the Russians. Is it so implausible?”

“Yes, because _we already had him._ Why would we _kidnap_ him?”

“I’m not saying I have all the pieces,” Jones admitted.

Cooper huffed.

“Why _did_ you get into this business, anyways?” Cooper asked. “If you think we aren’t helping anyone and that all we’re doing is cold, hard _realpolitik.”_

Jones shrugged.

“I was recruited out of the SAS when I was twenty-one. Pays well.”

“So you’re effectively a mercenary,” she said, less than impressed.

“And why’d _you_ get into this line of work? You do the same thing as me—you think idealistic pretensions make the difference?”

“I didn’t really _mean_ to…” she said.

“You just…fell into the cutthroat world of international espionage and black ops by a fortuitous confluence of circumstances? Or…not so fortuitous.”

“They plucked me out of my desk job two years ago because I could shoot,” she said.

“And why were you in that desk job?”

“Because I wanted to do something worthwhile. Because my father served with OSS during the war and I guess silly little me had the idea there might be something more to the world than naked greed and power politics. Unfortunately I can’t be a suave, heartless cynic like you.”

He leaned back and smiled.

“You’re right.”

“About what?”

“It _is_ unfortunate.”

She rolled her eyes.

* * *

_Las Vegas, USA_

_0530 hours GMT_

_September 15th, 1962_

Vegas glittered on their approach. Shining edifices of glass and steel. Casinos crowned in tinkling lights. Sculpted beauties in neon pointing the way to wine, women, and song.

“We’d better look the part,” Cooper said.

Jones rolled his eyes.

But over his objections, they stoped in at a dress and tuxedo fitters on the outskirts of town.

“Ready for a night on the town?” the fitter asked, beaming.

“Something like that,” Jones grimaced.

The woman took Cooper aside. Measured her shoulders and waist.

“You _are_ a beauty, dear,” she said. “And a handsome young escort you have, too!”

“Do not—“ Cooper snapped. The fitter started. “Sorry,” she apologized. “We’re not—please, don’t imply…you know.”

Jones snickered.

An hour later found them stuffed into a black, form-fitting suit and an equally swanky and equally black cocktail dress.

“How do I look?” she asked her partner-by-circumstance. She meant it in a purely professional, military way.

_Do I look ready for the task at hand?_

Jones coughed. He raised his hand to his mouth. His cheeks actually went a little red.

“You look fine,” he said. He fixed his tie.

She looked much better than fine, green eyes shining in the big city lights, blond hair loose in ringlets clinging to the fair skin of her bared shoulders. But that wasn’t particularly relevant.

He smoothed out his dark hair.

They took a taxi to the casino rather unassumingly called “the Lodge,” which as they discovered was in the very center of Vegas’ great gambling district.

The building was faux-marble, reaching up ten stories towards the evening sky. The lights crowning its peak blended with the stars. A great sign blazed: THE LODGE in all capital, Gothic letters.

Beneath that, in smaller, inconspicuous lettering: _Lodge Industries._

 _“_ Oh, shit,” Cooper exclaimed.

They ascended the gleaming steps to the glass doors.

“Well—haven’t heard much profanity from you,” Jones said. “What’s the occasion?”

“I uh…just made a connection,” Cooper said, shoving a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

“Ah…and what connection might that be?”

They entered the casino. The air conditioning hit them at full blast. The floor was a little field of tables and machines and cocktails. A gentleman in a tuxedo intercepted them. They paid the entrance fee.

“Hiram Lodge,” Cooper said.

“Hiram Lodge? The Financier? Is this his—“

Cooper nodded. Hiram Lodge was a New York businessman of rather ill repute. Besides the chain of casinos and the bank he operated, he was also unofficially but widely known to participate in a number of less than legitimate enterprises. Arms dealing to the highest bidder. The third world, awash in its proxy wars, was a lucrative market these days. He also employed plenty of men who could _use_ those arms. Crossing Hiram Lodge was a fantastic way to become fast acquainted with the wrong end of a pistol.

“Interesting,” Jones said.

“I have…a bit of history with the family,” Cooper admitted.

“What kind of history is that?”

They stepped out onto the floor, weaving around wasted bachelor parties and feverish poker games.

“Went to school with his daughter. Veronica.” Cooper drew closer to him. As if she was hiding from something. “In fact, she’s probably here.”

“Well, wonderful!” Jones exclaimed. “We can ask her what a GRU colonel was doing patronizing her father’s establishment!”

“Right,” Cooper said, sourly.

They ascended the stairs to the casino’s second floor.

There, at the poker table, cigarette in her left hand and cocktail in her right, stood a beautiful, olive-skinned brunette in a shimmering purple evening dress. She pushed aside a lock of straight raven hair and leaned over the dealer’s shoulder, grinning. Another woman stood next to her, a blonde a few years older. She wore a black eyepatch and a leather jacket, and looked less than pleased to be here.

The table was full. The game was heated, clearly. Chips piled in the middle. A man swore.

“That her?” Jones asked.

“Yep.”

Before they could do anything more, Veronica Lodge looked up. The cigarette wobbled between her fingers and almost fell. Her jaw dropped. Her grin widened. Lodge patted the blonde with the eyepatch on the shoulder and whispered something to her. Then she abandoned the game andrushed over to the new arrivals.

“Well, well, well! Betty Cooper as I live and breathe! Five years if it’s been a day! And you look just as pretty!” she pinched Cooper’s cheek.

Cooper smiled, and despite the circumstances Jones could tell it was at least halfway genuine.

“Veronica Lodge.”

They embraced, Lodge never dropping either her cigarette or her cocktail.

“And who’s your date?” She extended her hand. Jones took it and shook it.

“Jones,” he said. “Forsythe Jones.”

She looked at him askance.

“Not sure about the ring of that, but nice to meet you, anyhow. Welcome to my family’s humble little establishment!” She looked the two up and down again. “Come on, come on. We’re having a _great_ game here. Follow me, I—“

“Actually…” Cooper said. “Not really a pleasure visit.”

Lodge’s face fell.

“Aw, you guys are no fun.”

“But we _are_ here in official capacity.”

“You don’t have any legal authority in this country,” Cooper reminded him.

“And you didn’t have in any in Cuba,” he shot back.

“Fair point.”

Lodge gave them a look.

“You two just came back from Cuba?”

“Long story,” Cooper assured her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Daddy’s still steamed about the revolution,” she said, blowing a cloud of smoke into her guests’ faces. “Hell of a lot of money we lost. You should hear him whine about Guevara.” She laughed.

“Anyway, Miss Lodge,” Jones said. “We’d like to talk to you for a minute, if we could.”

Lodge leaned up against a slot machine.

“Sure! Sure! I’m a sucker for good conversation!” She stopped a waiter as he passed them by, tray in hand. “Hey, pal, bring us three martinis, yeah?”

“Shaken or stirred?” the waiter asked.

“Stirred for me,” Lodge answered.

“Shaken,” Cooper said.

“Just bring me the martini,” Jones said.

The waiter disappeared.

“So how’s your government-sponsored life?” Lodge asked the blonde. “I assume it’s mostly top secret, but I’m sure you can tell me _something_?”

“Less fun than you might think,” Cooper answered. “How’s everything at home?”

“So far as there _is_ a home…” Veronica sighed. “Daddy’s fine. He hasn’t been stateside in a while. Been spending all his time on the Riviera. Mom’s back and forth. I don’t see much of either of them, really.” She shrugged and puffed her cigarette.

The waiter brought their martinis.

“What do you know about a man called Volkhov?” Jones cut in. He sipped his martini.

Lodge’s eyes widened. The tan skin of her cheeks went pale for a moment. It was very quick, and then she was all cool, liquid composure again. But he caught it.

“Volkhov? We don’t get a lot of Russians in here,” she laughed awkwardly.

Jones took a step forward.

“You sure about that?”

Lodge sipped her drink and then puffed her cigarette. She hardened her face and refused to back down before the ornery Englishman.

“Yeah. Quite sure,”

“Jones…” Cooper warned.

He ignored her.

“You know nothing about a man named Volkhov?” Jones pressed.

“No bells ring,” Veronica answered.

“Look…Ronnie,” Cooper said softly, in what Jones assumed was an old school nickname. “We _really_ need you to work with us here.”

“I’d love to!” she said with mock-helplessness. Lodge threw a quick look over her shoulder. Jones noticed the woman with the eyepatch across the massive room, stalking the perimeter. She seemed to be watching them.

“Maybe someone your father knows?” Jones asked. “Friend of his? Think, won’t you?” He wasn’t sure whether to treat her as a hostile or a clueless civilian wrapped up in something much bigger than she was. The line between the two was often hard to tell. Even for a man like him.

“Guys…I’m telling you, I don’t know any Volkhov. Honest.”  Cooper narrowed her eyes. She licked her lips.

“Ronnie…please don’t lie to us.”

Lodge looked across the room. Jones was sure he saw her make eye-contact with the blonde woman.

Then she turned back to her two visitors-turned-interrogators.

“Tell you guys what—play a game of poker with me. Don’t worry about the money itself. I’ll put it up. And Nothing complex. Just a little Texas Hold ‘Em. And if you do well, we’ll see if my memory gets jogged.”

“Ronnie—“ Cooper said, exasperated. “We don’t have time for _games_.”

But then Jones thought better of it. Maybe it would do less than jog her memory—but maybe it would loosen her tongue. Especially if they could keep her drinking.

“No,” Jones said. “Let’s.”

Cooper huffed.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Lodge clasped her hands together.

“Excellent.”

She led them back to the poker table.

“I’m afraid I’m gonna have to clear you all out,” she said to the current players. Shouts of protest. “Go down to the front desk, we’ll refund whatever you put in.” She clapped her hands. “Come on, come on, let’s go.”

The players were successfully chased out, still grumbling.

Jones took his seat.

Lodge took the head of the table. Cooper sat next to him. Lodge called over the woman with the eyepatch.

“This is Penny,” Lodge introduced. “Friend of my father’s. Say hi, Penny.”

Penny smiled wickedly. She sat down.

Veronica summoned two more employees. Big men in suits. They looked like security.

“Pleasure to meet ya, kids.”

The dealer handed out the hole cards.

Jones checked his.

An ace and a queen. Both hearts. Not too bad to begin.

The two employees were the blinds.

$50 for the small blind.

$100 for the big one.

Cooper bit her lip. Jones watched her.

“Call,” she said.

She slid forward $100 worth of chips.

Jones sighed.

“Call,” he said, and put forward the same amount.

Lodge grinned.

“Raise,” she said, and put $200 worth of chips in.

Penny raised.

The pot ticked up to $550.

The community cards were flipped.

Jones blocked out the rest and zeroed in on the ten and the jack. Both of hearts. He just needed a king and he’d have a straight flush.

He got bold.

Raised on the next round.

The pot climbed to $1000.

One of the employees folded. Lodge tut-tutted. And raised.

$2000.

Penny called.

The next card was flipped.

An eight of spades.

Damn.

Cooper, to his surprise, raised. That card must be worth something to her. That was fine. She did well, he did well.

The pot increased to $5000. He had to remind himself it wasn’t real money. It was just about the winning. Lodge sipped her martini. He saw her sway a little bit. Tipsy enough to talk, yet?

“The name Volkhov still not ringing any bells?” he inquired.

Lodge winked.

“Keep playing, we’ll see.”

Final round. The last card was flipped. A king of hearts! Yes!

He heard a strange clicking sound. Cooper’s eyes went wide.

“Get down!”

He hardly registered the shout, then Cooper hurled herself out of her chair, slammed into him, and knocked him to the ground.

Penny fired beneath the table, where his gut would have been a moment ago. He sprang up, rolled over on one knee, drew his 1911, and fired back. Penny darted away.

Cooper drew her pistol and joined him.

The casino floor erupted into pandemonium. Revelers screamed and ran, charging this way and that, towards the staircase up and the staircase down.

From the corner of his eye, Jones saw Lodge turn and run.

“Get after her!” Cooper shouted. “I’ll take care of this one!”

Jones nodded. He rose to his feet and shot off after Lodge. The woman bounded up the stairs to the third floor with incredible speed for a girl in heels. He followed close behind.

* * *

Betty Cooper pressed herself against a slot machine. There was much to think about. _So_ much. But right now all she had time for was making certain this one-eyed assassin didn’t kill her.

A bullet whizzed past.

Betty took a deep breath and darted out from behind the machine. She skidded beneath a table, as Penny’s gun chewed up the carpet at her feet. Betty laid her pistol, a big S&W 357, across the table and took aim at her foe.

But it was tough. The floor was jam-packed with terrified civilians running, crawling, screaming. She couldn’t hit them. Penny seemed to have no such compunctions. She fired away, and seemed not very bothered by winging a young man in a suit, who fell to the ground howling, thigh spurting blood.

Betty caught an opening.

She fired off two shots. The revolver boomed like a cannon. Penny ducked, rolled, and fired back. A blackjack wheel _clanged_ and spun.

Betty went prone, pressed herself to the ground, and shot. The bullet snapped past the assassin’s leg. Betty actually saw it rip away a strip of cloth. But no blood.

“I missed you in Cuba!” Penny shouted, laughing. “Glad we could catch up!”

Betty peeked around the poker table and fired again.

“Here, have a _round_ on me,” she shouted, and then cringed at her own joke. She looked over the top of the table. Penny was gone. The floor was empty. She searched desperately.

Shit.

A footstep to her left.

She saw the glint of metal as Penny raised the gun.

Betty let her body go limp. There was no time to actually _duck._ She hit the ground. It hurt. Penny’s bullet sailed over her.

Betty aimed up. Zeroed in on the woman’s chest. Fired.

The shot hit dead on. Penny sprawled backwards over the poker table. Blood dribbled into the speed cloth. She struggled to rise and pull up her gun, glaring with one good eye. Betty aimed again and fired. This one struck her between the eyes. Penny snapped backwards and was still. A halo of blood and brain spread out around her head.

Betty took a deep breath and reloaded her revolver.

* * *

Jones charged up the fifth flight of stairs. Lodge had long ago discarded her heels, and she was _fast_.

He threw aside an amorous couple as he hurtled past. Caught the hem of Lodge’s dress as she disappeared around another corner.

“ _Stop_ , damn you!” he called. No response.

He cleared another landing. Smashed aside a waiter carrying half a dozen cocktails. Mimosa and daiquiri spattered his suit.

One more flight of stairs. His chest and heart burned. His legs protested. He kept up.

Lodge turned and dashed through a set of glass doors. Onto a balcony. He followed.

And found her balancing atop the railing, arms out to her sides, staring at him. The drop to the roof of the next building was about twenty-five feet down. And that was if you cleared the eight story gap.

Jones trained his pistol on Lodge’s chest.

“Please don’t,” he sighed.

Lodge balanced wordless for another moment. Then she shrugged.

“Sorry, Jones.”

And she jumped. He saw her leap through the air, arms flailing. She hovered precariously over the straight drop down—then landed perfectly on the neighboring roof.

“Goddammit!” he cried.

Then he leapt atop the balcony, braced himself, and jumped after her. She watched him in awe for a second, then turned and sprinted away. He raced in her wake, and fired a warning shot into the air. He couldn’t shoot her—even if he _could_ draw a bead on her while moving like this.

He ran along the tiled rooftop, eyes narrowed, singly focused on Veronica Lodge’s vanishing figure.

She reached the next drop-off. Cleared that one, too.

He followed.

Another terrifying, wild leap through the air. His feet impacted with the next roof. He fired wildly into the air.

Two more roofs.

Then Lodge leapt down again. But this time, not to the next building. Straight down. His heart stopped. He rushed to the ledge, expecting to see her broken on the ground below. Instead, he saw a fire-escape. And a dark, empty alley below.

“Son of a bitch!”

* * *

He met Cooper back at the casino a half hour later. Or rather, across the street from the Lodge Casino, as policemen stormed what was now the scene of a massive gunfight.

“We should probably get out of here before we end up arrested,” Cooper said. “I mean—my boss can get us released, but I’d rather not go through the motions."

Jones sighed. He holstered his pistol. He looked to Cooper’s waistline, where the bulge of her revolver stuck out noticeably.

“You had to use your weapon?

“The woman with the eyepatch?” Cooper dragged her finger across her throat.

Jones nodded.

“Well, considering, Miss Lodge’s… _reaction_ , I’d say it’s a safe bet her shady billionaire father is implicated in all of this somehow.”

Cooper breathed out, deeply.

“I suppose we’ll have to pay Hiram Lodge a visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why certain characters haven't made any appearances yet, there's a very good reason ;)
> 
> Also credit where credit is due I (unconsciously, to be fair) lifted most of the Cuba scene from a mission in the first Black Ops game


	2. Chapter 2

_Las Vegas, USA_

_2127 hours GMT_

_September 15th, 1962_

“My dad—er, the director is _really_ mad at you, Jug.”

Jones sighed into the remote phone.

“ _Why_? I did my _job_ for Christ’s sake!”

Archie fell silent for a moment on the other end of the line.

“Yeah—but when you do your job a bunch of people always die, things explode, and MI6 ends up looking bad.”

“I was in a—how would _you_ have resolved it?”

“You have to come back to London, Jug.”

“Are you serious? Listen—I just picked up a lead on this Doiley affair! I need—“

“It was the Russians, wasn’t it?”

“That’s the thing, Arch. I don’t know that it _was_ the Russians. This Hiram Lodge, he’s connected somehow. I know he is.”

“It was the Russians. You found a dead Russian at the scene. A scene covered in Russian shell casings. It was the Russians, Jug. Come on. Don’t make this more than it is.”

Jones gritted his teeth. He resisted the urge to smash the portable phone against the nearest wall. Archie knew him better than this.

“Come on, Arch. You _know_ I’m _not_ wrong about this.”

A long, transatlantic groan.

“Jughead, please. Come back. Let’s sort this out before it gets any worse.”

Jones hung up the portable phone and swore.

London and Langley were furious at him and Cooper, respectively, as he knew they would be. Both governments were busy disavowing any link to the chaos in Havana (especially difficult once Mantle’s body was discovered and identified by Cuban intelligence) and trying desperately to justify the Las Vegas fiasco.

Cooper poked her head into the room.

“I’m in big trouble.”

“There’s a lot of that going around,” Jones leaned up against the table. “I’m to return to London immediately for debriefing and _probably_ a serious dressing down.”

“And you’re going?”

“Yeah. I’m sure they’ll want me off the case. Don’t worry, it’s always in one ear and out the other with me.”

She smiled.

“I’m sorry, are you telling me you’re going to disobey direct orders from your superiors?”

“Well, depends on what the orders are, but probably.”

“Oh, good.” Cooper paused for a second . “Listen. About that woman in Vegas that I—you know,” Cooper dragged a finger across her throat again.

“Yeah?”

“I did a little cross-checking. Her name is—uh, _was_ Patricia Peabody. Prolific assassin. Big in the international underworld.”

“And?”

“Well, she moved around a lot, _but_ as of four weeks ago, she was in Nice, France.”

“On the Riviera,” Jones said, nodding.

“Right. And didn’t Ronn—er, Veronica say that her father had been spending most of his time on the Riviera?”

“I need to speak to Lodge,” Jones said.

“Yeah. Clearly.”

“But if I just jet off to France from here, MI6 is going to go mad and probably send someone to hunt me down as a rogue. So I’m going to go back to London, calm everyone’s nerves, and _then_ I’ll go follow up on this.”

“Sounds like a solid plan,” Cooper said, nodding. “How about we meet in Nice?”

Jones smiled, teasingly. “So it’s still ‘we’, is it?” Truth be told, he was becoming somewhat used to her company. And she’d been along with him this far. It seemed only fair that she be there at the conclusion of all of this.

Cooper patted him on the shoulder and smiled triumphantly, green eyes sparkling. “Of course it’s still _‘we’._ It’s been “we” for the past week, hasn’t it?”

He sighed.

“I suppose I do have you to thank for the fact that I wasn’t shot to death in Las Vegas,” he looked over his shoulder, as if the deceased, one-eyed assassin might be coming at him even now.

“That’s right,” she said, proudly, lifting her chin. “You _do_!”

He extended his hand.

“I’ll see you in Nice, Officer Cooper.

* * *

_London, United Kingdom_

_0815 hrs_

_September 18th, 1962_

“Jug, what did I tell you not to do?”

“Embarrass the government?”

Jones shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Whenever Director Andrews gave him a dressing down, he always felt like a small boy being scolded by his father. And yet, he always felt like he thoroughly deserved the scolding (which, to be fair, he usually did).

“And what did you do?”

“Look—Director Andrews—it couldn’t be helped, alright? It’s the hazards of—“

“Don’t tell _me_ about the hazards of field work, Jughead,” Andrews said, rubbing his creased brow. “For God’s sake, the Cuban government is already trumpeting to the whole world that a couple of NATO agents barged into their country, murdered thirty Cuban soldiers, and then stole a plane! And the worst part is they’re telling the truth! And this _right_ on that heels of that Bay of Pigs mess the Yanks cooked up! Do you _want_ to cause another world war?”

Jones shrugged, helplessly. Director Andrews’ office was pretty bare, containing only his desk, a single small rug, and a bookshelf. It always made him feel all the more vulnerable.

“Just deny it! Isn’t that what we always do?”

“Of course we’re denying it!” Andrews said. “We’re denying the hell out of it best we can! What’s a lot harder to deny is you shooting up a casino in Vegas on a Saturday night!”

“I think—” Jones said carefully, treading on very thin ice indeed. “I must point out that neither in Havana _or_ Vegas did I _ever_ fire first.”

The Director pinched his nose.

“I know you didn’t, Jug, I’m sure you didn’t. But the problem is _you put yourself into positions wherein you are fired upon_!”

“Look,” Jones said. “For all the shooting and the explosions and the chases, I _did_ gather valuable intel.”

Director Andrews seemed to relax a little. He sat back in his desk.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m less than sure this was a Soviet operation. And I doubt Doiley’s in a Russian cell somewhere.”

“Didn’t you _find_ a dead GRU man at the scene?” Andrews leaned forward.

“Yes! But a very _peculiar_ GRU man! Volkhov had been taking trips to _Vegas_ on a regular basis for God’s sake! What kind of Soviet does that?”

Andrews spread his hands.

Jones continued. “I believe Hiram Lodge is involved somehow. In fact, I believe he may be behind this.”

“You think Hiram Lodge, the New York businessman, kidnapped Dr. Doiley?”

Jones shrugged.

“It’s beginning to look increasingly likely! For God’s sakes his daughter set an assassin on us and took off running over rooftops when we tried to question her. It hardly gets more suspicious!” He leaned in close. Andrews didn’t budge. “I need to go to France. I need to talk to Lodge.”

The Director shook his head. 

“We can’t risk any more incidents like that last one. I’m going to have to keep you home for a while.”

Despite himself, Jones pounded his fist on Director Andrews’ desk.

“Damnit Fre—Director! I’ve been working here for _years_! You _know_ me well enough to trust me! When have I ever been wrong on something like this?”

Andrews thought for a moment.

“Johannesburg?”

“ _Besides_ that!”

“What exactly are you asking for, here, Jug?”

Jones sighed. He dug his fingers into Director Andrews’ desk. His eyes were wide and pleading.

“I want you let to me go to France. Let me speak to Lodge. Let me press him a little. I _know_ I can get it out of him, whatever _it_ is.”

Andrews sighed. He closed his eyes. Knitted his fingers together.

“You want to _talk_ to him?”

“Yes!” Jones swore. He was sure he could keep the situation from becoming bloody, this time. Probably. Maybe. “I’ll speak to him, that’s all.”

Another long silence from Director Andrews.

“Alright. I’m going to let you go to France, Jughead. And I’m going to let you _talk_ to Hiram Lodge. _Talk_ to him. Not with your pistol. Not with your fists. With your _tongue._ Do not _burn_ anything. Do not _blow anything up_! You may go to the Riviera and you may _talk_ to the man. If for any reason force is _needed_ , you will go through the _proper channels_ and request it from us.”

“Of _course_ ,” Jones assured him.

“Oh, one more thing,” Andrew said. “I’m sending Archie with you.”

“Ah!” Jones exclaimed. Sometimes he liked to have Archie along. The man could be a calming presence. But not this time. And anyway, he was already going to meet Cooper in France (not that he was glad about that or anything. He’d just made a promise.)

“You _wanted_ me to send him to Mexico with you,” Andrews said.

“Well, yes,” Jones admitted. “But the situation has evolved, let's say.”

Director Andrews smiled, almost slyly.

“You mean your new friend from Langley?”

Jones felt his cheeks burn a little. That made him angry. He frowned.

“Well—yes and—no—I.”

The Director shook his head.

“Just go, Jug. Please don’t make me regret this.”

“You won’t!” Jones assured him. “Not even for a second.”

* * *

_Over the English Channel_

_2332 hrs GMT_

_September 27th, 1962_

“So why exactly would some billionaire banker want to kidnap a nuclear scientist?” Archie asked.

Jones looked out through the window, down at the grey English channel speeding beneath their plane.

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s looking to make a foray into nuclear energy?” Jones was only half joking. The truth was he really had no idea. And he still was not entirely certain Lodge _was_ behind it, though he was becoming more and more certain by the minute.

“Or something worse,” Archie suggested.

“Or something worse,” Jones repeated and grimaced. Of course, there could be far more nefarious usages for a man experienced in the mechanics of nuclear weaponry. What insurgency or rebel army (and God knew there were plenty of both to spare these days) wouldn’t pay through the nose for an atom bomb? "Anyways, Lodge is more than a banker. Unofficially, at least. More or less common knowledge that runs money and guns, and dictates where they're used, too. He was a big backer of Batista, back in the day. Put out more than a few hits." 

“So,” Archie began to say. “Cuba.”

“We’re _not_ going to have a repeat of Cuba. Christ, Archie, I already had it out with your father over this. And anyways, that wasn’t _my_ fault, I didn’t even want to _go_ to Cuba! It was that damn American!”

“The CIA woman?”

“Yes. Elizabeth—well, Cooper.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Ye—“ Jones rounded on his friend—partner, brow furrowed. “How in God’s name is that relevant?”

“I—I guess it’s not,” Andrews admitted. “She must be good at her job, though.”

“What makes you say that?” Jones said, irritated at the fact that he suddenly found himself ready to defend her.

“Well you tolerated each other in three different countries.”

“I guess you’ll find out soon enough for yourself,” Jones said.

Archie looked at him quizzically.

“Why?”

“Because we’re meeting her in Nice.”

Archie’s eyes widened.

“What? You didn’t tell the director that.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Archie sighed. He wasn’t particularly surprised, but he was a little disappointed.

“I won’t tell him.”

Jones patted him on the shoulder.

“You’re a good man, Archibald Andrews.”

* * *

_Nice, France_

_0744 hrs GMT_

_September 28th, 1962_

They met Cooper in Nice, as he’d said, in a little cafe on the Place Masséna.

Cooper stood up from her table, wearing shades and a greatcoat, looking very much like a secret agent attempting not to look anything like a secret agent. Jones and Archie strolled up to her.

It was a bit chilly, but probably not enough to justify Cooper’s coat. Pedestrians blissfully passed them by.

Archie extended a hand.

“Archie Andrews, MI6. Good to meet you!”

“Elizabeth Cooper, CIA. Good to meet you, too.”

“I’m sure you two will be fast friends,” Jones drawled, rolling his eyes.

“Is he _always_ like this?” Cooper asked. “Because he’s been like this every time I’ve seen him.”

“Yes,” Archie said. “You’d better get used to it. He is always like this.”

“Do your bosses back home know you’re meeting us here?” Jones asked her.

“Nope,” she said. “I don’t think they’d be thrilled about my working with you again, actually, considering our track record.”

“Please. We barely spent a week together,” he said, sounding almost regretful.

“It was a hell of a week, though,” Archie said.

Jones shot his friend a look.

“We should probably get going, right?” Cooper said.

“Sure,” Jones responded. “Know where?”

“Hiram Lodge has got—naturally—a beach house on the Riviera. It’s only twenty miles or so from the city.”

“Once we’re there,” Jones began. “What exactly is it we should ask him? ‘Did you have your daughter and a one-eyed assassin try to kill us in Las Vegas?’ ‘Did you kidnap a brilliant nuclear scientist by the name of Doiley?’”

“I guess we should try to work our way up to it?” Archie suggested.

“Right,” Jones said. Then to Cooper: “he’s here as my guardian, by the way. To make sure I don’t get out of line again.”

Now Archie shot _him_ a look.

“Let’s just go,” Cooper said.

The trio walked off together. 

They caught a tourist bus down the coast. Their dress, even besides Cooper’s coat, rather conservative and professional marked them out from the colorful, loosely dressed vacationers, and not for the first time, Jones wondered about the supposed clandestine dimension of his work.

The Mediterranean, a deep and heavy blue, rolled to their left. The waves crashed up against the verdant green bluffs, rocked caravels and fishing boats at their docks. It was beautiful really. Jones wished he could afford a vacation here.

The bus made a few winding turns around the gentle coastline of southern France. The high palaces and red-brick houses of the wealthy loomed over the water to the right.

The bus dropped them off at a soft, sloping beach a few miles out of the city.

“We can probably walk from here.”

They strolled along the coast for a while, passing by the pretty, affluent houses. The ocean sloshed and roared. The sky turned a bit grey. It wasn’t especially prime swimsuit season, but there were still plenty of tourists littered across the beaches below the bluffs.

“So how well do you know Hiram Lodge?” Jones asked.

Cooper shrugged.

“Not _incredibly_ well. Like I said, I was school friends with Veronica. It’s not like I saw him often. I went with the family to Hawaii on vacation after graduation. He was always personable.”

“Personable, huh?”

Lodge’s Riviera house was a tall, three story affair hewn from porous white stone, with a red-tiled roof sloping towards the sea, face to the water and rear-entrance to the green bluffs and the winding ribbon of oceanside highway.

“Nice house,” Archie said.

“Thanks, Arch,” Jones replied.

They wound their way up the gravel walk to the wrought-iron black gate. Jones hit the intercom. There was a buzzing and a crackling. They waited a moment. A thin voice—“Can I help you?”

“Is that him?” Archie whispered, and Cooper shook her head no.

“This is—“ Jones began, but Cooper shoved him aside and took over.

“Hi, Mr. Smithers,” Cooper leaned in, speaking into the intercom. “It’s Eli—Betty Cooper? Is Mr. Lodge home?”

The man’s voice softened.

“Miss Elizabeth! It’s been—well, quite a long time!”

Jones made a bit of an odd face.

“Guess he doesn’t know about Vegas?” Jones asked.

“Shut up!” Cooper hissed.

“Yes it has,” she said good naturedly. Is Mr. Lodge here?”

“Ah. He’s out fishing. He should be back within an hour or two, but—but come in, please! Miss Veronica will be glad to see you, at least.”

“Oh,” Jones deadpanned.

The gate swung open.

“Is this is a trap?” Archie asked.

“I _doubt_ it,” Cooper said.

“Ah,” Jones said. “Well, if you _doubt_ it.”

But nevertheless, he followed her in through the open gate, up the paved pathway to the front door. The shadow of the house swallowed them up. The door swung open.

An avuncular looking older man in a suit welcomed them in. He embraced Cooper.

“Too long, Miss Elizabeth, too long.”

“Indeed.”

“And your friends?”

“Ah. Friends from work.”

Smithers inclined his head.

“Ah. And what was it you do again? You work in a bank or some such thing, wasn’t it?”

“Something like that,” Cooper said.

“She’s a terrible banker,” Jones teased. She gave him a look.

Smithers turned back into the house.

“Miss Veronica! You’ve callers!”

Footsteps on the second floor. A face appeared on the landing. Veronica was dressed in an unprepossessing sun dress, and barefoot. Her face whitened when she saw her guests.

So did Betty’s.

Jones smiled.

Archie didn’t really make much of any expression one way or another.

“Good to see you again, Miss Lodge,” Jones called, waving.

Veronica regained her composure and descended the staircase with an iron smile.

Smithers ushered them into the sitting room, made them tea, and let them be. Veronica stoked a fire. Jones swished his tea obnoxiously.

“So are you here to shoot me?” Veronica asked.

“Uh—” Archie began.

“Not officially,” Jones said.

“ _No,_ Veronica,” Cooper assured her.

“Though,” Jones said. “If we _were_ here to shoot you, it wouldn’t be an entirely unreasonable reaction considering _you_ set an assassin on us in Nevada.”

Veronica sighed and rubbed her temple.

“I never _wanted_ to kill you.”

Jones swished his tea some more. He wasn’t quick to drink it. Drinking proffered drinks on the job was rarely a good idea. He’d learned that the hard way.

“You have a very odd way of going about not killing us.”

Jones turned around. His seat was to the wall and not near any windows, but he still didn’t want to chance anyone coming around behind him. Considering what had happened the last time they’d tried to question her, it hardly seemed like a risk he should take.

“My _father_ hired Penny. Not me.”

“Where _is_ your father?” Cooper questioned. “Is he _really_ out fishing?”

Veronica spread her hands, helpless.

“ _Yes_! I swear to God! When he gets back you can grill him all you like!”

Jones put down his tea.

“Well until then, how about _you_ talk to us? Why’d you run from us in Vegas? And what do you _really_ know about GrIgory Volkhov? And please—be honest this time.” Jones shifted in his seat, moved his coat, and flashed the pistol at his hip.

“Oh,” Veronica drawled. “I’m shaking in my boots.” She crossed her bare feet.

Archie and Cooper both gave him looks. And Jones remembered the ‘no guns’ stipulation that had been the Director’s condition for letting him off the chain in the first place. It’s not like he was _really_ going to shoot Veronica Lodge right in the middle of her parlor. Unless she shot first. Probably.

“I ran because we don’t talk to feds—“ Veronica said, primly. She sat back in her seat.

“I’m not a fed, V,” Cooper said, sounding a bit tired.

“ _Or_ CIA, or MI6,” she turned to glare at Jones, who smiled back.

“I’m playing catch up a bit, here,” Archie said, “Are we accusing her of being a soviet agent? Is that what’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” Jones said. “Are we?” Then to Veronica: “Why not answer my good friend's question?”

Veronica rolled her eyes.

“I’m not a ‘soviet agent,’ you idiots.” She gestured to the swanky surroundings—the fireplace burning, the oak paneling. “Do I _look_ like a communist? I’m not an _anything_ agent.”

“So, then, Ronnie,” Cooper said, forceful but still hardly _hostile_. “Tell us about Colonel Volkhov. Please.”

Veronica sighed. She produced a cigarette and lit it. Tapped her foot.

“The truth is, I really _don’t_ know anything about Colonel Volkhov. Did he come to the casino sometimes? Yes—fine, he did. But _I_ never spoke with him. He only ever spoke with my father, of course. I just—“ She shrugged. “I figured he was looking to defect or something!”

“Why would a GRU colonel defect to an American businessman instead of the _American government_?” Jones demanded.

“Hell if I know!” Veronica exclaimed. “I thought—I don’t know, alright? The man hardly tells _me_ anything, anyways.”

“When did Volkhov start coming around?” Jones asked.

Veronica shook her head.

“June, maybe? May?”

“Of this year?”

“Yeah.”

“So only about five months ago,” Archie said.

“Sure,” Veronica said.

“Doctor Dilton Doiley,” Jones said. “What does that mean to you?”

“Nice alliteration?” Veronica responded. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“We’d hope so,” Betty said.

“Yeah, well, you’re out of luck, Betty. Sorry. Don’t know what else to tell you.”

“The truth, for starters,” Jones said.

Veronica glared at him a little more.

Just then, the door to the parlor opened.

And Hiram Lodge stepped inside.

He was a handsome man tending towards middle-aged, muscular and dressed in a sleeveless shirt, skin covered in a sheen of sweat, presumably the result of his angling exploits. Lodge did not look particularly miffed or even surprised to see his unexpected guests. Veronica visibly relaxed, as if hoping her father would now receive the brunt of the visitors’ attentions.

“Elizabeth Cooper,” Lodge said with a smile. “Long, long time no see.”

Cooper affected a smile.

“Mr. Lodge.”

“I just wish you weren’t here on business,” he said, still smiling. He walked across the room to the bar and picked out two bottles.

“Are the fish biting?” Jones asked.

“Afraid not as much as I’d like, Mr. Jones,” Lodge replied, still smiling.

Jones started. He wasn’t _surprised_ Lodge knew his name, but he did not enjoy the man’s casual, unruffled demeanor.

“Mr Lodge—“ Archie tried to start.

The man was mixing himself a cocktail. He shook the glass a bit.

“Now, Mr. whatever your name is.”

“Andrews,” Archie said.

“Right. Now, Mr. Andrews, before you or any of your friends say another word, I want to ask you a question: what country are we in?”

Archie stopped, he fell silent, as if wary of a trap. He stared at Lodge for a long while. Then he said, carefully: “France?”

Lodge sipped his cocktail and pointed at the young redhead.

“Correct! France! Not America and not England. Which _means_ , as I’m sure you’re aware, that neither the CIA _nor_ MI6 have any legal authority on this soil. So I’d appreciate if you stopped trying to intimidate me or my daughter.”

The three agents sat in silence for a moment. Then Jones stood up.

“Mr. Lodge,” he said, matching his smile. “Come on. I’m sure you of all people know the difference between _de jure_ and _de facto_ authority, don’t you? I can assure you, we have plenty of the latter.”

Lodge frowned. He sipped his drink again.

“Only if you have a good reason to be here. And—“ he stepped out from behind the bar. “No offense intended, but I doubt you do, Mr. Jones.”

“Let’s figure that out, shall we?” Jones said. He set down his tea. “We may be in France, but you _are_ an American citizen, Mr. Lodge, and I very much doubt your government would be delighted to know you entertain Soviet spies in your casinos.”

Lodge’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled again. He raised his glass in a toast.

“Well, there’s no reason my government needs to know that, is there, Mr. Jones?”

“Maybe not. As long as you cooperate.”

Lodge sat down. Next to his daughter. Right next to the fire. And despite that fire the room seems to chill a little. Everyone in the room exchanges sharp, furtive glances.

Jones stared, blue eyes hot.

Lodge drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair.

“What are you accusing me of, exactly?”

“The abduction of Dr. Dilton Doiley,” Jones said. “The murder of his bodyguards. The violation of international law. Probably a hell of a lot more, but that's enough for the moment.” Lodge said nothing, so Jones pressed on.“You have Doiley, don’t you?”

Lodge didn’t respond. He swished his cocktail. Veronica averted her eyes. The fireplace crackled.

“Where is he?” Cooper demanded.

“Mr. Jones,” Hiram nods at the young man. “Mr. Andrews. Ms. Cooper. I really don’t think you kids you realize the _depths_ you’ve just stuck your toes into.”

“I’ve been deeper,” Jones said. “And I haven’t drowned, yet.”

Veronica looked like she was about to be ill.

“Not in waters this choppy,” Lodge chuckled. “I _don’t_ have Doiley. But if I were you, I’d give up looking.”

“Well,” Jones said. “I’m stubborn.” Then he nodded towards Veronica. “Ask your daughter.”

The doors to the sitting room opened. About fifteen men entered from every which direction, arms at their sides, pistols at their hips. Jones refused to turn around. Lodge nodded at his henchmen. Cooper gave Jones and Archie a look, eyes wide. Jones shook his head. They couldn’t take that many, not even the three of them.

The three agents stood.

“Andre. Gentlemen,” Lodge said to his mercenaries. “Please relieve Mr. Jones, Mr. Andrews, and Ms. Cooper of their weapons.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Lodge,” said the fellow who was apparently called Andre, a tall man with a bald head. Then to their guests. “Stand up.”

Having little choice, they complied.

The men swarmed around them. Andre plucked Jones’ pistol from his belt. Took Archie’s and Cooper’s guns, too.

The guardsmen grabbed them the agents by the arms and dragged them to their feet. They did not bother to fight. Veronica looked away, even when Cooper tried to catch her eye. They were marched out of the sitting room and down the stairs back to the first floor. They passed Smithers on the way out. He too averted his gaze.

Andre whispered something to one of his men. The man nodded. He and about five more guardsmen surrounded the agents. They walked them out of the house’s front door, onto the sand of the beach.

“Is he just kicking us out?” Archie asked.

“No,” Jones whispered. “He just doesn’t want our blood on his floor.”

The guards walked them across the beach, stumbling in the white sand. The blue Mediterranean crashed up on the shore as they approached. They took a hard right, and began towards Lodge’s private dock, a few dozen meters away.

Stepped up onto the pier. Three crafts docked there, a sailing vessel, a fishing boat, and a little motor dinghy. One of Lodge’s henchmen prodded Jones in the back, and forced him over the gangway onto the dinghy. His companions and the guards followed. One of the men started up the motor. Another herded the trio to the head of the boat. A third unmoored the little vessel from the docks.

The boat churned up the water and sputtered and then began to motor out to sea, leaving a trail of roiling foam in its wake. Jones saw two of the agents draw their pistols. Obviously, they planned to shoot them and dump them overboard, but he wasn’t particularly concerned. This was far from the worst situation he’d ever found himself in. The situation only a year ago in Red China had been _far_ worse than this, and he’d come out of that okay.

He looked side to side. His companions looked similarly unperturbed. Archie hadn’t been with him in China, but they had been in Siberia together that one time. And that had turned out fine, too. Cooper wasn’t giving away much of anything with her expression. But she didn’t look particularly terrified either. Jones figured she’d been in a scrap or two of her own.

The fellow piloting the little craft slowed, but did not stop. The propeller kept on whirling and sending up sheets of white water.

One of the guards leveled a Walther at Jones’ face. He blinked.

“Stand up,” the man said.

Jones stood up.

The man stepped around him and pressed the barrel of the gun to the base of his skull. He walked him to the boat’s stern. Jones looked down at the propeller. He probably had about a second and a half before his would-be assassin pulled the trigger and and splattered his brains into the water.

Jones whipped his head to the side. The gunman stumbled back in shock. He fired and the bullet sailed uselessly into the ocean breeze. Jones grabbed him by the arm, snatched the gun away, and hurled him onto the propeller. The guard hardly had time to scream as his body was shredded and his blood colored the sea. Gouts of gore sprayed into the air, and then the propeller released the corpse, and it fell behind, bobbing in the bloody waves.

That took about two seconds. Holding the man’s Walther, Jones whirled around. The other four guards stared in shock. He drew a bead on the first one. Fired. Hit him in the head. He tumbled over the side of the boat with a splash and was still. Refocused his aim, hit the other in the chest as he scrambled for his own weapon. He pitched forward into the bow of the boat.

The other two managed to draw their weapons, except Archie leapt up, grabbed one by the back of the head, and smashed his skull against the gunwale. Smashed him again. There were two sharp _crunches_ , the man twitched, and was still. Archie flipped his body over the side.

The last man stumbled forward as Cooper leapt up and kicked him in the back. He fell to his knees and struggled to rise again. Cooper darted down and picked up the last guard’s dropped pistol. She fired three quick shots into the final man’s back. He toppled over the side of the still chugging boat, arms dragging in the water. With a shove, he too went into the drink.

The three agents stood in the bloody little dinghy, exchanging silent looks.

“Well,” said Archie. “That was easier than I thought.”

“So much for ‘no guns,’ I guess,” Jones said. He shrugged. Then he killed the engine. “And uh, Archibald, since we’ve just killed five people, I suppose you won’t object to us questioning Mr. Lodge again? At gunpoint this time?”

Archie shrugged.

“We’ve done this much.”

“Good man!”

He started the motor up again and turned the boat around, heading back towards the docks.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you two,” Cooper said.

“Yes?” Jones said.

“The whole licence to kill thing. Is that real?”

“You’re asking if we have literal official documents clearing us to violate international law and kill foreign nationals as we see fit? No, unfortunately not.” He paused for a second. “It’d be nice, though.”

* * *

“Did you tell them _anything?”_ Hiram Lodge demanded. He snuffed out the fireplace.

His daughter looked back at him, face blank.

“I— _no_!” she insisted.

“ _Nothing_?” he pressed. Their three guests would be dead soon enough, but still, he wanted to know that his daughter _would not_ tell anything to _anyone_. Regardless of who they were or how long they had left to live.

“Just—I told them that Volkhov _did_ come by the casino now and again, okay? That’s _it_!”

Hiram’s eyes widened. He grabbed Veronica by the shoulders.

“ _Christ_ , Mija? Are you _insane_? I—“

“That’s not worth anything!” she insisted.

“That’s not the _point_. For God’s sake, Veronica! If they find you’ve told MI6 or the CIA or—if they find out you’ve ever told them _anything_ —do you want to get us both killed?”

His heart was beating quickly now. It was all falling apart. He had been a fool to ever take the money. Been a fool to ever accede to this operation and offer his own men for its execution. His greed had gotten the better of him. Just like his wife had always told him it would. He had promised that he wouldn’t leave any trail that might possibly lead back to _them_. And he’d known the risks of failing. Now he _had_ failed. And he had to tie up every loose end _quick_ , or it would be _his_ head on a platter.

“Daddy—“ Veronica began, looking rather queasy herself.

“Pack your things, Veronica,” he said. “ _Now_.”

“Bu—“

“ _Now_!”

His daughter had never been particularly thrilled with the family business. But now the chickens had really come home to roost, and he couldn’t blame Veronica for being less than enthusiastic. Still, he’d taught her to value loyalty. He might have made a poor decision, but he still expected his family to stick by him.

But Veronica stood there stock still. Staring back at him.

He was about to repeat his order when he heard gunshots downstairs.

* * *

Archie kicked in the front door and the three stormed back into the house, guns drawn. Two of Lodge’s henchmen stood at the head of the staircase, engaged in some languid conversation. When the door splintered open they spun around and fumbled for their guns.

Jones shot one, Cooper shot the other. Their corpses tumbled down the stairs. Jones shot them both again for good measure.

“Mr. Lodge!” Cooper called.

There was shuffling upstairs. Feet moving. Running

They stormed up the staircase.

At the end of the hallway, four more of Lodge’s men poured into the fray, weapons drawn. Jones ducked down behind a bureau. A fusillade of bullets tore over their heads. Jones counted the shots. They all seemed to be armed with Walthers, and the men on the boat had held pistols with an eight round capacity. But they were spacing their shots so that at least one man was always firing while another reloaded. Jones stuck his pistol out from cover and fired wildly without aiming. The bullets stopped for a brief moment, while their foes instinctively ducked. Jones poked his head out and shot again, precisely this time. He dropped one of the one of the guards, and then sprang back behind the bureau before the other three could regather their wits.

Cooper was crouched behind a half-opened door. A bullet whined by and took a chunk of wood from the door. She stuck her head out right where the shot had struck, assuming the gunman would refocus his aim. She shot another of the guards, leaving two, who began to retreat back down the hall.

The three agents sprang out of cover and sprinted down the corridor. The two remaining gunmen retreated into the parlor and took cover on either side of the double doors. One popped out and fired two desultory shots that went wide. A bullet sang past Jones’ air. He felt the hot air against his jaw. Ignored it. Dropped to a knee and fired back.

Then Lodge’s voice from the parlor: “hold your fire!”

His henchmen fell silent. The agents quieted their own weapons, for the moment.

“Listen to me!” Lodge shouted. “I’ll say it _one more time_. You understand _nothing_! You’re swimming with sharks, now! Drop your weapons! Go home! Let this be! It’ll be better for us all! I swear it!”

“You’re not in position to be making demands anymore, Mr. Lodge!” Cooper shouted back.

“ _I’m_ not making demands!” he cried. “I’m interested in _my_ _self-preservation_ , as you should be interested in your own!”

“You gonna kill us?” Archie demanded. “ _Again_?”

“ _I’m_ not threatening you, but believe me, you _are_ being threatened! Keep sniffing after this Doiley business, and you’ll _wish_ my men had put bullets in your skulls and dumped you in the sea!”

Jones thought on that for a second. Of course this did not end with Lodge, just as he’d suspected, but it was nice to have it from the horse’s mouth. Of course this meant he was not nearly done with this particular assignment. Which he was somewhat glad about, truth be told. He liked to keep himself busy. 

Lodge spoke no more.

They heard footsteps moving away. Lodge’s gunmen sprang back out from cover, pistols at the ready. Jones gripped his gun with both hands and zeroed in.

Then he was blown backwards, as half the hallway crumbled in a blast of ash and smoke. The floor dropped out from beneath them. Lodge’s own two bodyguards were subsumed in the explosion. He saw them disappear in a flurry of splinters and broken stone, mouths opened wide in shock. Jones scrabbled at the wall. His fingers found no purchase. To his right, he saw Cooper and Archie fall through the gaping hole back down to the first floor. He tried to dig his toes into the wall. Failed. Felt himself in free fall. He hit the ground hard. The air burst from his lungs. He gasped. Looked up.

There was a massive, yawning hole through the second floor, the third floor, and even clear out through the roof, where he could see the blue sky spread out, streaked with clouds. White dust powdered his face and coat. He sucked in a deep breath, chest burning. Rolled over onto his side. Cooper and Archie lay next to each other, motionless.

Jones crawled towards them, feeling something hot and sticky seep through his hair and down his forehead. He ignored the blood even as it congealed in his lashes and eyebrows. A different kind of pressure built up in his chest as he neared the fallen forms of his friend and his new companion. Similarly covered in dust and ash. They could not— _would_ not be dead. Not like this—not in so unceremonious a—Archie’s chest was rising and falling. His eyes sprang open. Jones breathed in a sigh of relief.

Then Cooper. Her blonde hair stuck to her cheek and temples, glued with sweat and blood. Jones rolled her over, heart thumping. If she was dead—he suddenly felt responsible. He’d agreed to meet her in Nice. He’d pushed for the mission to Vegas, and then to see Lodge. It would be his fault.

It was just the job, right? It was always just the job, wasn’t it?

Her face was intact, pink lips ever so slightly parted. There did not look to be any grievous injuries. She looked quite beautiful, even now.

And he sighed in relief as he saw her throat contract, while she sucked in a breath. Her green eyes fluttered open.

“You’re alive!” he exclaimed, with more elation in his voice than he’d intended.

He helped her to her knees. 

She threw an arm around his shoulder, and he didn’t remove it. Jones took a second to gather what had happened. Lodge had blown up half his own house (He had had it rigged in advance, obviously) and killed what was left of his own bodyguard.

And presumably escaped in the chaos.

The three agents staggered to their feet, dust and debris raining down on them. Archie coughed as smoke swirled around him.

They were silent for a long while, recovering from the shock. Jones’ ears still rang, and he assumed the same of his companions. He shook his head to clear away the throbbing pain in his temple. Probably, he had a concussion.

But instead of voicing that conviction, he said: “think we can still get back up that staircase?”

Said staircase went up about halfway and the rest had collapsed in the blast. Jones measured the gap and figured if he got a running start he could jump to the second floor landing.

He started up the stairs.

“I think I’m going to vomit,” Archie groaned as he followed.

“Try to hold it in for another five minutes,” Jones pleaded.

“I’ve never been in the epicenter of an explosion before,” Cooper admitted. Blood trickled down the side of her face.

“Oh, you get used to it,” Jones said.

He reached the end of the destroyed staircase. Braced himself. Jumped. Hovered in the air for a moment. Then his feet touched the landing. He turned and beckoned his companions to follow. They wavered for a moment. Cooper came first. She just barely cleared the gap. He took her hand and dragged her up. Held it for probably a moment longer than necessary.

Archie came last. He was a big man and it was a bit of a challenge. But he made it. They were back where they started, now. The three stepped into the parlor where they’d first met Lodge. The dead fireplace glowed in the corner. The western wall was caved in.

They stepped gingerly, wary of falling through the floor again, now that the house had certainly been structurally compromised. Winding through the back of the parlor, they passed another hallway, and then found themselves in what was certainly Lodge’s office.

He was gone as was Veronica. But his offices were largely intact. The door had blown in, but the room itself was whole. It was crammed top to bottom with bookshelves. Jones noticed a bust of Machiavelli on the man’s desk and rolled his eyes.

Cooper stepped around behind Lodge’s desk. She threw open a drawer. Archie joined her. Archie reached into the drawer and retrieved a stack of papers. Beneath that, a leather-bound ledger.

Jones was about to follow, when he heard a steep wailing on the wind outside. Sirens.

Shit

* * *

_Nice, France_

_0928 hrs GMT_

_September 29th, 1962_

It took about a day of negotiation from MI6 and the CIA, along with some serious back-channel diplomatic maneuvering, to release the three agents from the custody of the French police.

But while they sat in a cell in Nice, still covered in dust, ash, and blood, Officer Elizabeth Cooper had more to tell her new companions.

“Guys,” she said.

Archie was just shaking his head, muttering about how fucked they all were. Jones was staring straight ahead into the distance, still coming off of his adrenaline high.

“They’re going to stick our heads on pikes at London Bridge, Jug,” Archie was saying. He wiped away a trickle of blood from his brow. “My fath—the Director is _personally_ going to tan our hides!”

“They _did_ shoot first,” Jones reminded him. “Well—not _literally_ , but they _were_ going to.”

“I had _one_ job,” Archie said.

“ _Guys_!” Cooper said again, more forcefully.

“Yeah?” Jones muttered.

“I didn’t bring it up in Nice, _or_ at Lodge’s because there were more exciting things happening, but while I was back home I did a little more digging.”

“On?”

“Dr. Doiley. I’m not even _supposed_ to know what I’m about to tell you, and I only got the information because I have some friends that owe me favors, so I’d appreciate it if this all stayed between the three of us for now.”

“We’re so goddamned,” Archie said, not seeming to hear her.

“Go ahead,” Jones said.

“Well, ‘Dilton Doiley’ wasn’t his real name. Or at least, it wasn’t _always_. The guy is a big question mark, but as far as I could tell, he was born in Soviet Russia.”

That got Jones _and_ Archie’s attentions. They fixed their eyes on her.

“Go on,” Jones said.

“During the 1950s, he was working on the _Soviet_ nuclear program, with the name Spiridonov. No idea if that was his birth name or not. But he defected in 1959 through Austria. The US gave him a new identity, new background, everything, and put him to work on _our_ nuclear program.”

“Well,” said Jones. “That explains why, of all the nuclear scientists in the world, they kidnapped the paranoiac constantly surrounded by armed guards.”

“Because he would be one of the only people in the world familiar with the nuclear programs of both of the most powerful countries on earth,” Archie finished.

“Exactly!” Cooper said.

“The plot thickens,” Jones said.

Just then a French policeman appeared and threw the cell door open. He glowered at them. “Up. All of you.”

They stood. They were marched out of the police prefecture. On the curb outside awaited a long black vehicle somewhere between a hearse and a limousine. A man in a dark coat stood next to the open back door. The driver idled.

Jones swore under his breath as he recognized the man in the coat. It was Director Andrews himself. He and Archie weren’t going to have any time to concoct excuses or mitigating circumstances for the dozen dead guards and demolished beach house of the now-missing Hiram Lodge.

As they approached their reckoning,. Jones leaned in towards Cooper.

“Just so we’re clear, this isn’t over, right?”

“Of _course_ not!” she hissed back. “And as much as it may pain me to admit it, you were _right_. There’s a _lot_ more to this than the Russians!”

Jones nodded, relieved. _He_ hated to admit it, so he wouldn’t just now, but she was quick becoming a fixture of this investigation. He wanted her along for the conclusion.

“Jones, Andrews,” the Director said. Last names. That was not good. Then to the American: “Miss Cooper.”

Jones smiled sheepishly, like a boy who’s just been caught next to a broken window with a bat in his hand.

They slipped into the car.

* * *

_Piedmont, Italy_

_1039 hrs GMT_

_September 30, 1962_

Hiram Lodge peeked out through the curtains. It had all gone to hell. Completely to hell. They’d only just managed to slip past those three kids at his Riviera house (he swore, spies and assassins were getting younger every year. By this time next month he’d be fending off grade schoolers). He silently commended himself for going through with rigging those explosives in the building’s walls months earlier. And they’d told him he was _paranoid_.

Well, he was, and thank God he was.

Looking out the windows, soft green Italian country rolled by, cow fields and barns. He hadn’t used the Piedmontese safe house in years, but he was certainly glad he’d kept it in operation. It wasn’t under his name or even his wife’s name. The name of some old alias he’d used once or twice. It would never be linked to him.

It wasn’t as nice as the house he’d just blown up, and certainly not as nice as his penthouses back in New York, but it would do the job. And that wasn’t its purpose, anyways.

He was still jittery. He replaced the curtain. He heard something shuffle downstairs. Started. It was just Veronica, moping about being dragged into her father’s shenanigans once again. She would get over it. She always did, eventually.

He needed a drink.

If he was only on the run from MI6 or the CIA, he wouldn’t be near this worried. He wouldn’t be worried at all, actually. The house was surrounded by thirty armed men. Well-trained. Ex-military all. Handpicked. They’d been flown in secretly only this morning from the states. Yes, he had no reason to fear governments. But it wasn’t governments or their hirelings that had him spooked.

What he was afraid of—he feared even this remote little house and the guard surrounding it wouldn’t be enough.

Hiram puttered out of the room and back into the kitchen. Veronica passed by on her way to the television room. She glared at him. He rolled his eyes. She’d not been happy about the destruction of the beach house. It had been her favorite. She’d get over that, too.

Hiram poured the vodka. Prepared to mix it.

What would he do next? He had to contact _them_. Assure them that everything was under control. It wasn’t of course, but he had to at least _make_ that it was. It would be the difference between life and death for him. Only he had never contacted _them_ before. _They_ always contacted him.

He finished making the drink. Took a sip. His fingers were shaking.

There was more rustling outside. He heard someone murmur into a radio.

Hiram took a deep breath. It was only one of his guards.

He repaired to the TV room and joined his daughter, who was watching a news broadcast from home.

“ _—indicate that the Soviet government is considering the placement of nuclear-armed missiles on the island of Cuba, a scant 500 miles from the coast of the United States. Such an act—ostensibly an answer to American missiles in Turkey and Italy—would constitute a clear provocation and…”_

Hiram shook his head. Nuclear war was not good for business. With a little luck cooler heads would prevail, and he wouldn’t have to reassess his profit margins in the context of an irradiated wasteland.

“What do you _want_?” Veronica demanded. He was going to answer when he heard a _thump_. Not outside. Inside the house.

His first thought was that it was Veronica again. Except that Veronica was right next to him. He stood, mouth dry. Stepped out of the TV room.

One of his guards stood there in the doorway, the staircase and the front door right behind him.

“Parker!” Hiram called. Parker’s eyes were wide. He buckled and fell to his knees. Then he collapsed onto his face. There was a knife in his back. The blood drained from Hiram’s cheeks, he took a step back.

A figure stepped out from behind the stairwell. Then another. Then another. Dark—black fatigues. Gas masks. Rifles in their arms. Except for the ones that carried knives.

He was about to call out for his guards, but the first figure said, in a woman’s voice: “they’re all dead, Mr. Lodge. Please.”

“I—I have everything under control,” he swore. “I _promise_.”

“Is that so?” asked the woman. She stepped forward. Shocks of blonde hair protruded from beneath the mask. “Is that why you’re cowering here in Piedmont while MI6 swarms over the remains of your house on the Riviera?”

“They don’t know _anything_!” he swore.

“Nothing? Nothing at all? We hired you to bring us Doiley,” she said. “Under the understanding _you_ would keep us and most of all, the _boss,_ from being tied to it in any way at all! Instead, you’ve left a trail of breadcrumbs leading British and US intelligence  _right_ back to us!” She shook her head. “I don’t think we’ve made a very good investment, Mr. Lodge. Do you?”

“I can fix this!” he swore.

The woman raised a pistol.

“I don’t think you can. I think we’re going to have to take care of this _ourselves_. Right after we’re done tying up loose ends _here_.” She nodded to the men on either side of her. “Go find the girl.”

“Veronica!” Hiram shouted. “Run!”

And then the woman fired a single shot through his skull. He stood for another moment, rocking to and fro on his feet. Then he pitched forward, dead.

* * *

The woman stepped over Lodge’s corpse. She followed three of her men further into the house, rifles raised. They entered the lounge. The TV was still playing. Something about Cuba and Soviet Russia and the United States.

But the girl was gone.

The woman sighed. Why did things always have to be such a hassle?

* * *

_London, United Kingdom_

_1125 hrs GMT_

_September 30th, 1962_

“I’m sorry, Jug. This is it,”

“Direct—“ Jones tried, before Andrews cut him off.

After picking them up in Nice, Director Andrews had unceremoniously handed Cooper off to her own people at the CIA. She’d face the music in her own country. Then he rounded on his two agents.

He’d already given Archie the most thorough chewing-out Jones had ever heard, and actually demoted him. Now it was his turn.

He tried to count the number of times he found himself standing in the director’s office for a commendation instead of a dressing down.

“No, Jughead,” Andrews said. “For God’s sake, this isn’t even about  _me_ anymore! People are breathing down _my_ neck! I said you could go talk to Lodge on the _express_ condition that you _talk_ to him! That no one die and _nothing explode_! Now the man’s whole bodyguard is dead, his house is a shambles, and he’s _gone_!”

“They tried to kill us!” Jones protested. “We didn’t exactly have a _choice_ but to shoot back! And I’d like to remind you _we_ didn’t kill the last two of his bodyguards. They died in the explosion.”

Andrews rubbed his face.

“I don’t _doubt_ it, Jug! But the point is _you get yourself into situations that require you to shoot back!”_

“It was worth it!” Jones exclaimed. “I was right. This wasn’t the Russians. At least not the Soviets alone. Probably not the Soviets at all. I—“

“Enough,” Andrews said, raising his hand. “And this business with Cooper? I didn’t clear you to bring her in on this!”

“Well—we didn’t expect you’d find out,” he said, sheepishly. “She saved my life in Vegas. I figured—“

“I don’t _care_ , Jughead! You’ve caused two—three international incidents in a month!”

“That’s not really not bad considering my track record,” Jones said. Andrews glared.

“You’re out of the field. For the foreseeable future. And probably beyond it.”

“But I was right!” Jones exclaimed. “It’s not the Soviets, it’s not even just Lodge. There’s something— _someone_ behind all of this. And you’ll forgive me for being superstitious, but I have a _very_ bad gut feeling about this!”

“No,” Andrews said, voice and face hard. “No, Jughead. You’re not leaving London, much less Britain for a _very_ long time. You’re off of the Doiley case.”

“We don’t even know where Lodge has gone,” Jones protested. “At least let me—“

“We’ll deal with Lodge. Not you. You’ve done more than enough.”

“Bu—“

“You’re done. Go home. I’m sure there’s some work here at home we can find for you. That’ll be all, Mr. Jones.”

“Fre—Director Andrews—“

“That’ll be _all_ , Mr. Jones.”

Jones swallowed his anger and frustration. He swallowed. Saluted. “Yes, sir.” Turned to go.

“And, Jughead—if you decide you don’t much feel like following these orders, either, you’re terminated. I don’t mean just in the field. I mean at MI6. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Jones repeated, voice strangled.

He turned and stepped out of the director’s office.

Archie was already gone. Probably to nurse his wounds in a pub somewhere. Jones sighed and rubbed his face. He _already_ felt restless. Working here at home—they might as well throw him in a cell.

Ethel met him in the elevator.

“Someone looks like they had a bad day.”

“They’re keeping me home,” he complained. “Indefinitely. Can you _believe_ it?”

“Yeah,” she snorted. “Welcome to my world.”

They descended. The elevator dinged.

“How do you keep from going crazy here?” Jones asked.

“I don’t,” she said.

“Encouraging.”

The doors opened. They stepped out on the ground floor of the building.

Jones turned to exit.

“Wait!” Ethel called. He turned. She reached into her purse. “I nearly forgot.” She retrieved something. A dossier of some sort. Wrapped in leather.

“What’s that?” Jones asked. “My first bit of homework?"

“Very funny,” she scoffed. “Archie left It with me before he took off. He said it might cheer you up.”

“And what is it that might cheer me up?”

“He said he nabbed it from Lodge’s office, before the French coppers showed up and hauled you all off.”

Jones curiosity spiked. He stepped forward and took it from her hands. He opened it. It was the ledger from Lodge’s desk.

“It’s a financial ledger,” he said.

“Lodge’s?” she asked

“Yeah. By date.” Jones flicked through it, fascinated. This was exactly what he needed. Maybe working at home wouldn’t be quite so boring after all.

Still, it was mostly mundane at first glance. The sort of thing you might  _expect_ to find in a businessman's desk. Transfers of money, a few thousand ponds or dollars from Lodge Industries to some Greece construction firm, or banana cartels in Latin America.

But one caught his eye, because of the date.

May 1962. According to this ledger, Lodge had received 5 million USD on that date. From  _somebody_. 

May 1962.

That was when Veronica had said Volkhov began coming around the casino. And for another reason—most of the entries named the business or individual with which Lodge was doing business, but not this one.

Or rather, the entry used what seemed to be an alias or a codename of some sort.

Jones ran his hand over the entry. Written in red pen.

“The Red Queen,” he said quietly. “Now, who do you suppose _that_ might be?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: my knowledge regarding this particular period of world history is not as strong as is that concerning other periods I've written about (1920s, 30s, not that you should cite anything I've written set in those years in a term paper or anything), so I take full credit for the myriad of inaccuracies.

_ London, United Kingdom _

_ 1432 hours _

_ October 16, 1962 _

A week of suspension and Jones was going insane. 

He’d always had downtime, there were always breaks between assignments, but then he always had the knowledge that it was _temporary_ and soon he would have _something_ to do.

This time, his suspension was _indefinite_. What if Andrews kept him here for _months? Years_?

He would completely lose the plot should that be the case.

Right now, Andrews had him helping Ethel and Archie with SigInt—that was, signals intelligence. Telephone calls, radio transmissions, that sort of thing. Mostly Russian, sometimes East German, or Polish, or Czechoslovak. It was rarely anything interesting.

Yes, Jones thought, as he pored over a decoded message from Krákow to a long-infiltrated spy ring in Italy—we already _know_ you’re struggling to keep your Milanese assets in line and that Moscow is threatening to cut funding.

“Check this out,” Ethel said. She slid him a paper. She’d translated it from Bulgarian in pen. 

Jones read it.

It was a desperate plea from a Bulgarian spymaster to one of his assets in France to _please_ stop spending official _francs_ on wine and leather boots.

He chuckled. She chuckled. He called Archie, three desks over, and he chuckled a little. It was about the funniest thing they’d seen in the past week, which was saying a lot.

Much of the information was material that would not even be new to a well-informed layman who kept abreast with the London _Times_.

The most interesting matter, one that popped up again and again in intercepted _communiques_ , regarded the brewing crisis in the Caribbean. Just as Mantle had said that night in Havana, the Soviet Union had placed a number of nuclear armed missiles on the little island. Aimed right at America’s greatest cities. A tit for tat response to the similar NATO armaments in Italy and Turkey.

It had finally gone public, and the world seemed on the bring of something awful. Jones hoped—as did any man with an ounce of sense in his head, communist or capitalist or liberal or _anything—_ that cool heads would prevail, and the planet could avoid a nuclear firestorm within the year.

He also had a deep, niggling fear that he and Cooper’s misadventures on the island might have played some part in the escalation of tensions.

Cooper…

Much to his own chagrin, Jones found he _missed_ Cooper a little. He missed seeing the determination or defiance flashing in her great green eyes. He missed bickering with her, and feeling a bit of pride when she hit him with a particularly good barb. He even missed having her next to him and—oh, he felt like a sap.

The world was one misstep from nuclear war, he’d been taken off one of the most intriguing cases of his career, and here he was thinking about a woman. Even a capable, intelligent, beautiful one.

It was not doing wonders for his already deteriorating mental state. He had a whole new appreciation for Ethel’s job.

Then Ethel passed him another paper. This one quietly, with an air of conspiracy. They weren’t supposed to be working on _this_.

The only thing keeping him (and, he was convinced, probably Archie, despite his placid mask) anchored was the unofficial assignment they’d given themselves: the Red Queen. A ghost, cliche as it sounded. He’d never heard of such a figure, and Jones was sure he’d heard of _every_ shadowy underworld phantom worth hearing about. There were only dead ends after dead ends.

The paper Ethel had just slipped him was a receipt of sorts. Not an official one, but one typed up by _someone_. She had scrawled in the margins: _dug this up in records_.

It was in German, which he could read. It was not signed—there were no identifiers, but _someone_ was thanking ‘the Scarlet Empress’ for the shipment of a few dozen Soviet T-55s, several thousands worth of American M16 rifles, and an assortment of international weaponry besides. All to the tune of $20 million dollars. She (Jones assumed it was a ‘she’) used a lot of names like that. ‘The Red Queen’. ‘The Scarlet Empress’. ‘The Scarlet Cobra’. She seemed to be an arms dealer, in part at least. Sometimes she dealt in raw materials, too. Oil, steel, copper, cordite. But they could never trace her past her deals. She was always exceedingly careful. And her customers never left any more evidence than absolutely necessary that they’d ever interacted with her. Almost as if they were afraid.

But, Jones was fully convinced, it was she that had contracted Lodge to abduct Doiley.

If he could only glean _some_ clue as to who she was.

“If I could _get a fucking lead_ ,” he suddenly said aloud.

Ethel raised an eyebrow.

“And if you can? You’re going to contravene Andrews’ orders and go rogue?”

“Probably,” he said.

She smiled.

“Good man.”

He got back to reading and decoding boring Soviet intel. If Andrews or one of his other superiors caught wind he was _still_ working on the Doiley case despite his official suspension, good Lord would he be in for it. Even more than he already was.

But it was only a matter of time. And Jones had already made up his mind. The _second_ he got any solid information on this ‘Red Queen’ and her identity—or even someone that might _lead_ him to such information, he was going after it. Let them fire him. Do worse, even.

He’d always considered himself a cool-minded, rational man. Never one to chase after gut feelings. But now his gut was _burning_. He _had_ to follow through on this.

Across the room, packed full of desks and workers, piled high with the same mind-numbing papers, Archie looked about as drained as he did with the drudgery. He wondered if could convince his old friend to come along with him in direct contravention of orders when the time came. He doubted it. But he did not want to do it alone.

Cooper?

For all he knew, she’d been stripped of her responsibilities and tossed into military prison back across the pond. Just like she’d feared after Vegas.

Good God, he _did_ miss her.

* * *

_Rome, Italy_

_1622 hours GMT_

_October 16th, 1962_

It took more than a week for Veronica to work up the courage to make the call. The second she did, she would have to abandon the relative safety she’d found and go on the run again. But she had to do it. What was the alternative? Run forever? She could not— _would_ not, do that.

After so narrowly escaping the assassins that had slain her father in Piedmont, she had stripped off her fine dresses, buried her jewelry in an Alpine ditch, and stolen a ragged peasant’s skirts from a clothesline in the country. Rubbed her face in dirt. Trudged along the country roads westward into Italy. It was crude and old-fashioned, but it would give her a better fighting chance than any modern forged identity or subterfuge.

She knew the Red Queen was after her, too. She would want to wipe away any evidence of her connection to Doiley’s abduction. And Veronica knew far too much.

Her life hung by a thread. Damocles’s sword glimmered. She had once chance.

And Lodges took chances.

Veronica walked into the American consulate in Rome, smeared in filth, without a shower for days.

“My name is Veronica Lodge, my father Hiram Lodge is dead, and I’m an American citizen.”

She had to act fast. It would be only hours at most before the Red Queen found out where she was. One of the more minor legates invited her into his office and sat her down while they ‘hashed out the details’ to ‘get her home’. She had to laugh at that. _They_ had eyes everywhere. Already the information would be speeding along by courier or private line: _Veronica Lodge is in Rome._

And if she was still in Rome by nightfall, she would die there.

When the legate left her alone in his office for a moment, she did what she came her to do. Leapt for his phone, which she knew would be an international line. Dialed the number, which Betty had given her long ago, and which she had memorized, because one never knew when they would need that sort of thing.

_God, please pick up._

And—there was mercy in the universe—she _did_.

“Elizabeth Cooper.”

“Betty! It’s me! Veronica!”

“Wh—Veronica? Y—“

“Look, I know I stood by a week ago while my dad tried to kill you, but you need to help me. _Please_. I’m _so_ sorry, I—“

And Betty, sweet Betty, hardly even sounded _angry._

 _“_ V…what’s happening?”

“My father’s dead,” Veronica stammered. “He’s dead and they’re coming for me, next. You have to help me. _Please_. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. About _anything_.”

Betty sighed.

“I suppose you’ll want immunity?”

“I don’t care! Just keep me alive! That’s all I ask!”

“What can you tell me?” Betty asked, sounding a little tired.

“Not here. You have to come get me. Ex—extract me or whatever it is you do. I can’t stay on the line long.”

Another long pause.

“Where could I find you?”

Veronica paused. She could not say out loud of course. Or else assassins would be waiting for them both when they arrived. She wracked her mind for a place she could communicate to Betty without also communicating to everyone else. Something from their school days. There had to be _something_! Veronica worked her mind probably harder than she’d ever worked it. Every minute on the phone was another minute the call could be traced. And she had to assume it _was_ being traced. Then it came to her.

“Our favorite flower,” Veronica said, conspiratorial. “Remember?”

“Our favorite— _oh_!”

It hadn’t been their _favorite flower_. But there had been a particular and rather funny incident involving a bouquet of tulips their second year of university. And it always stuck in their heads.

“Yes. Yes. The capital. In the evening. A starry evening... _”_

Betty was quiet.

“I’ll be there,” she said at last. “If you will. Three days.”

Holland. Amsterdam. The Rijksmuseum. Three days.

Veronica could cry. She’d tried to kill her old friend twice and she was still going to help her. Elizabeth Cooper really was an angel.  “Thank you so much—“ Veronica tried, tears trickling down her cheeks. “Th—“

“Save it for then.”

Then Betty hung up.

Veronica slammed the phone back down.

The legate returned a minute later, but the girl who had come into the consulate was already vanished into the crowds of Rome. He shook his head.

Only an hour later, a tall fellow with dark hair and a mousy blonde arrived at the consulate, dressed in plain and simple black. They were searching for Veronica Lodge.

The legate informed them that she _had_ been there, only she was gone now, and regrettably, even if he was permitted to divulge information about her whereabouts, she had up and gone, God knew where.

The pair smiled, thanked him, turned, and went. The legate was hardly certain, but he thought he saw the flashes of pistols beneath their coats.

* * *

_London, United Kingdom_

_1148 hours GMT_

_October 19th, 1962_

Only three days later, Jones got the call of his dreams.

“It’s for you,” Archie said, secretively, as he patched it through. Archie generally wasn’t much one for conspiracy, and when he was, well then Jones knew it was serious. Jones slid aside another bit of intercepted East German intel and picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Jones? It’s me—Cooper!”

He actually felt his heart lighten. A deep excitement stirred in his stomach.

“Why are you calling me?” he said, affecting an annoyance he certainly did not feel. “You know what shit I’m in thanks t—“

“Listen, I just got a call from Veronica Lodge. Her father’s dead.”

He perked up further. Jones couldn’t say he was surprised. Lodge had said they were all swimming with sharks, after all. It seemed they’d devoured him in the end. But Veronica could still talk, so long as she was alive.

“And?”

“She wants us to find her. Pick her up. She’s not asking anything—just that we keep her alive and safe.”

“From who?” Jones questioned, speaking quietly. Though he had an idea.

“I—I don’t know. I—“

“Someone called ‘the Red Queen’?”

“She didn’t say.”

“That’s fine. Where does she want us to—er, extract her? Oh, and did she apologize for her repeated acquiescence in attempts to kill us?”

“Jones, let’s not—“

“Fine, fine. Where do I meet you?”

“I can’t tell you where she’s going to be over the phone. She thinks she’s being watched.”

Jones wanted to say ‘she’s just being paranoid,’ but he was becoming less than sure about the accuracy of that charge lately, no matter _who_ it was leveled at. Doiley and Lodge had both been paranoid. They had both been _right_ to be paranoid. And yet it had not been enough to save them.

“Okay. Fine. Where do I meet _you_?”

“Meet me in Antwerp. The port,” Cooper said. “And I can explain the rest.”

Jones nodded. “Fine, fine.”

“Wait,” Cooper said, before he could hang up.

“Yeah?”

“Look—I’m not demanding you come with me or anything. I know your job’s in jeopardy. Like mine. I don’t want you to risk your whole—“

“Forget it. I’ll be there. When?"

"Today, if you can? A little after noon?"

He hung up. Leaned back in his chair and sighed. She was right. The moment Andrews realized he’d finally gone rogue, he’d be done. Crucified. Finished. He’d be lucky if they didn’t shoot him.

But that was only if he failed. If he went to Antwerp, found Veronica Lodge, and uncovered whatever it was underlay all of this, then he would be vindicated. And even if he wasn’t, that feeling in his gut—

He stood. Already, he felt less bored. The blood pumped in his veins. Even the stuffy office room was less constricting. Ethel and Archie, along with every other filer and clerk within twenty feet, gave him a look.

He had that signature “Jones is about to do something stupid” gleam in the eye.

“So, where you off to?” Ethel asked dryly.

“Probably shouldn’t say,” he said, unable to suppress a smile.

“Right.”

He walked to Archie’s desk.

“I can’t go with you, Jug,” Archie said, before his old friend could even ask.

“Come on—“

“I don’t want to risk it,” Archie said. He looked genuinely apologetic, though frankly, Jones thought, being that _he_ was the one asking his friend to violate orders, _he_ ought to look apologetic. “I just don’t. Not this time.”

Jones sighed. He patted Archie on the shoulder.

“I’ll keep you updated.”

Archie nodded. Jones turned to go. He stepped out.

“Jug!” Archie called. He turned around.

“Yeah?”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

_Antwerp, Belgium_

_1323 hours GMT_

_October 19th, 1962_

He was at the docks in Antwerp at the appointed time. Cooper hadn’t gotten any more specific, so he figured he would have to just wander about until he spotted her or she spotted him. She _would_ make it, wouldn’t she?

Jones suddenly found himself rather eager to see her.

He shuffled past a long row of crates, just offloaded from transatlantic steamers. Stevedores shouted and gesticulated. He kept his head low, coat tight around his waist, like a proper spy. Sometimes he really did feel like a cliche. The salty spray filled his nostrils. The smells of fish and oil. Great iron ships. Sweat. A port. He was circling around the crates for the fourth time when he heard it: “Jones!” Then he turned and saw her jogging towards him, blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders, a small, almost sheepish smile on her lips. Clad in an unassuming, formless coat just like him. He smiled.

“Cooper,” he said.

“I made it!” she beamed.

“Against the wishes of your own government, I assume?”

“Just like you!” she beamed.

He smiled wider.

“I may have misjudged you in the beginning, Miss Cooper.”

She inclined her head.

“And I, you, Mr. Jones.”

“So where are we meeting our erstwhile foe and present ward, Miss Lodge?”

Cooper leaned in, as if someone might be listening. And perhaps they were.

“Amsterdam. Not far. Obviously.”

“Wonderful,” he said. “Let’s not waste any time, yes?”

She actually linked her arm with his. He didn’t protest. And that way they strolled out of the Antwerp docks.

* * *

On the train to Amsterdam he filled her in on what he knew of the Red Queen, which of course, was very little.

“Kind of a catchy name, huh?”

“Like we’re in a dime novel,” Jones conceded.

“So, as I so begrudgingly admitted before, it looks like you were right. The Russians aren’t behind this. Someone hired Lodge to kidnap the doctor, just like you said. And apparently it’s this person who calls themselves the Red Queen. So—why? A nuclear power could use Doiley for the benefit of its own nuclear program. But why would a private individual take him?”

Jones sighed and gave voice to his worries.

“Well, it’s possible someone _is_ looking to build a nuclear weapon _themselves_. I can hardly imagine how much any insurgent army or terrorist would pay for that.”

They both took a moment to stew in the grim implications of that.

“You know the funny thing…” Cooper began. “I don’t think they could do much worse with a nuclear weapon than _our_ governments are doing _now_! This mess in Cuba? Good God!”

Jones grimaced and nodded his agreement.

“Worst invention mankind’s ever devised. And you’re right—one warhead in the hands of some communist guerrillas is harmless next to a hundred in the hands of Khrushchev or Kennedy.”

“But like you said—“ Cooper said, almost sadly. “This is the job.”

“Don’t you go losing your idealism, now _,_ Miss Cooper. _”_ he implored.

“You know,” Cooper said. “I think after all this—you’ve earned the right to call me Betty.”

He smiled. Jones was shocked to hear it. But it made him feel a bit better. She fixed him with her big green eyes, and he felt his heart soften a bit. “I—I think I may stick to ‘Cooper’, for now.” It would take a while to get used to.

Cooper shrugged.

“Well, if you insist.”

“That being said—I suppose it’s only fair I tell you that if _you_ wish—you _have_ earned the right to call me ‘Jughead’.”

“ _What_?”

Peals of laughter.

Jones rolled his eyes. He’d expected that. Still. 

“Yes, yes. Laugh it up.”

“How’d you _ever_ end up with such a ridiculous name?”

“It was a cryptonym,” he said. “First field assignment I was ever given. It just…stuck.”

“Fair enough,” Cooper says. “I’m not sure I could _ever_ get used to that one, though!”

* * *

_1509 hours GMT_

_Amsterdam, Netherlands_

_October 19th, 1962_

The Rijksmuseum was a 19th century construction, wide and long, presenting as Gothic and modern together. The red-brown brick reflected in the adjacent canal, inviting hordes of tourists to peruse the preserved Rembrandt and Van Gogh inside.

Cooper and Jones arrived a little after 9:00. They took a table on the lawn just outside the museum, as throngs of visitors moved around them.

“I sure hope she didn’t catch a bullet on the way here,” Jones joked.

Cooper glared at him.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said. “She’s tried to kill you _twice._ In the past _month_.”

“She wa— _is_ my friend,” Cooper insisted.

“Your friend _who’s tried to kill you twice_ ,” he repeated.

She rolled her eyes.

“Clemency’s not your strong suit.”

“It should…have its limits,” he said.

They fell silent when someone passed too near their table, or engaged in artificial conversation. Jones hated to admit it, but he thought he was becoming a little paranoid himself. This assignment was making him so. He’d always prided himself on his ability to survive in this line of work without seeing assassins in every shadow. He was seeing them now. A woman passed by, with two children bouncing along. Perfectly unassuming. Probably. The sky overhead was a perfect Dutch grey. Jones hoped it would not rain soon. Rain always made things harder. A single raindrop hit his arm and he jumped.

“You okay?” Cooper asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

“Fine,” he said. “As always.”

It was some thirty minutes before they spotted her. More or less on time. She was across the lawn, next to the canal. Wearing a ridiculously large hat. A pair of shades. A long skirt. Veronica looked very much like a young woman trying to be inconspicuous.

Jones had to chuckle a little.

Cooper touched his arm—he wasn’t sure why she did that but he didn’t mind too much.

“Let’s go,” she said quietly.

Then they stood and began making their way across the lawn, trying their best to be nonchalant about it. Veronica noticed them—and had the good sense not to wave. She began to walk towards _them_.

One hundred yards.

Eighty yards.

Sixty.

Fifty.

It happened very quickly (as did most things in this business).

Five men—each at a different table, and each involved in conversations with people who looked entirely shocked at their sudden departure—stood. It took Jones longer than it should have to realize they were moving in concert, and moving _towards_ Veronica.

They closed the distance fast.

There were only about thirty yards between Cooper and Jones on the one hand, and Veronica Lodge on the other.

But the five men got to her quicker. Before Jones could go for his pistol, one had yanked her off of her feet. She screamed.

Cooper fumbled for her own revolver.

One of the men pulled something from his belt. He shouted something in Russian. It sounded odd to Jones, who understood the language, if not perfectly. Scripted. Artificial.

Jones freed his M1911, drew a bead, and fired. The shot went wide.

Whatever he’d pulled from his belt, the man held it in his hand.It was small and black. A _grenade_?

He threw it.

“Get down!” Jones shouted. He grabbed Cooper’s arm and yanked her to the ground. The grenade rolled across the green.

Tourists and visitors were running now, screaming, stampeding.

The grenade did not explode—instead it _hissed_ , and a thin, purplish vapor began wafting out onto the cold, wet Amsterdam breeze. Jones scrambled away. _Gas_? He’d never been in a gas attack, but his father had. And he had no intention of sharing his father’s experiences.

But neither did he have any intention of losing Lodge.

He sprang back to his feet, squeezed his nostrils shut, closed his mouth, and sprinted after the kidnappers. Cooper leapt up and followed. They skirted around the spreading cloud of gas—not wide enough.

Jones sniffed it, acrid and hot. He expected any moment to feel a shortness of breath. A burning in his lungs. He sprinted on, legs pumping. Their quarry were carrying Lodge away from the museum, towards the curb around the corner—Jones could guess the black van parked there was their destination.

Still no burning or pain—only a wooziness. He suddenly felt tired. Shook himself awake and carried on. Cooper fired a few shots over his shoulder. They went wide—one pinged off of the van, just as they threw it open and tossed Veronica (who was kicking and clawing all the way) inside.

The van tried to back out. It smashed into the parked car behind it, denting its fender. One of the men cursed in Russian. The vehicle twisted left and right as it struggled to escape. Forty meters away.

The sky suddenly got darker. A strange mist oozed up around Jones’ feet. He shook his head. Even as they piled into the van and started the engine, the kidnappers seemed to grow, to become taller and longer, like cadaverous ghosts.

The crowds seemed to thin out. The city grew silent. An odd and unnerving chill gripped his muscles.

Jones felt a strange fear billowing in his chest. He could no longer hear Cooper’s footsteps behind him. He turned around and saw her stumbling along through the weird, gathering darkness, gripping her head with one hand and clutching the revolver in the other.

The kidnappers eyes and mouths glowed, even from fifty feet away, like demons. Their fingers lengthened into spidery claws.

Then he realized.

The gas—it had been a hallucinogen.

That’s what this was.

None of it was real.

The realization restored his courage. He put more power into his legs and closed the gap between himself and the van. One of the men leaned out of the window and fired a shotgun wildly at him. He missed—naturally.

“It’s not real!” he shouted at Cooper over his shoulder, not knowing what she was seeing.

She lifted her head, weakly—and nodded.

Jones leapt forward. The van finally freed itself and pulled out. His pistol slipped from his grip and bounced along the road. He gripped the side mirror. Was dragged along as the van raced away. Lifted his feet from the ground and braced them against the door. Looked into the eyes of the man in the passenger seat. They were deep, glowing red. His teeth gruesome fangs.

 _It’s not real_ , Jones reminded himself.

He steadied himself against the body of the van, as the driver smashed the pedal and they careened off into the Amsterdam streets. The gunman in the passenger’s seat stuck his shotgun out the window and squeezed off another round. Jones yanked his head back, still holding fast to the mirror and grinding his heels into the door as the pavement race below him. Just before they turned a corner, he saw Cooper—evidently already overcoming the gas effects—shoot out a parked car’s window, hop inside, and get the engine going. He breathed a sigh of relief, just before the man fired his shotgun at him. Again. And missed, again. Jones reached in through the window. He grabbed the barrel of the shotgun. Slammed the stock into the man’s face. Pulled the gun from his suddenly slack fingers. The driver began to swerve.

“Shake the fucker off!” one of the men in the back shouted in English, stilted Russian forgotten. Jones whipped the shotgun around. He could not fire it one-handed without shattering his arm, so he tossed it away, and it bounced along on the road behind them.

The effects of the gas began to fade. The faces of the men in the van became human again. The odd, pressing darkness disappeared. Will flooded back into his weary limbs.

Jones punched the passenger. The van swerved hard. Cars tore away, trying to avoid them. They made another turn. Jones punched the passenger again. One of the men in the back drew a pistol. He fired. Missed. The windshield shattered. Jones smashed the passenger’s face into the dashboard. Again. Again. The driver watched him with terror. Once the passenger was out of commission, Jones stuck his head in through the window. In the back of the van, two men held Veronica down, wrists tied, a gun to her head. The third was still trying to hit Jones with his pistol, even as his hands shook wildly.

“We’ll fucking kill her, man!” one of them threatened.

Jones decided to take the chance they were bluffing. He was _fairly_ sure they were. And anyway, she _had_ tried to kill him twice, so he wasn’t _particularly_ torn up about taking that chance.

He reached out for the man’s pistol. His fingers brushed it. Wind blasted in from the broken windshield. The fellow fired again. Jones felt it whizz past his ear. He wrapped a hand around the barrel. Pulled it away. _This_ he could shoot one-handed. He leveled it at the man’s face and fired. He blew back, dead. The two guys holding Veronica watched in horror.

Jones hoisted himself in through the window, and landed in the lap of the knocked-out passenger. The driver, desperate to both keep them on the road and rid themselves of their troubling passenger, tried to punch with his left hand and steer with the right. They winded wildly out of their lane, very nearly colliding with a massive truck that veered by and blared its horn.

Jones kicked the driver. The van jolted. Jones pointed the gun at him.

“Keep driving, asshole!”

The two guys holding down Veronica looked on, faces pale. But they still hadn’t killed her. So he’d been right. They were bluffing. They couldn’t kill her. They’d been given orders not to, and probably were more afraid of the consequences of disobedience than of him. Which said something about the Red Queen.

But it was a mistake on their part.

Jones shot them both. He pushed the passenger’s body out of the seat and settled in alongside the driver. The driver opened his mouth to speak. Jones shot him, too. Yanked the corpse aside and took over the wheel himself.

In the back, Veronica struggled to free herself of her bonds.

“Goddamnit! These— _fuck_!”

“Easy, back there,” Jones said smoothly, as he settled the van back into its proper lane and eased his foot off of the gas. “Oh, you’re welcome by the way.”

He met Veronica’s eyes in the rearview mirror. She looked back at him, terrified but calming. Her face softened.

“Thank you,” she sighed.

“I think I’m owed an apology. Several, actually.”

“For what?”

“Your trying to affect my death. On multiple occasions.”

“It wasn’t _‘multiple’,”_ she insisted. “It was _two_!”

“Two is multiple,” he shot back.

Veronica sighed.

“I’m sorry. And—thank you. For…” she paused. “Saving me. Where’s Betty?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but then saw:

Behind them, another car was gaining fast. A yellow sedan. For a moment, Jones’ heart began to race again, and he prepped himself for another fight. But then he saw the flash of blonde hair in the driver’s seat.

Ah. It was Cooper. She really _could_ keep up.

She came closer, switching lanes, and then drove up alongside them. Jones rolled down the window. His face, chest, and arms were soaked in blood. He smiled at her. Then he pulled the van over. Hopped out. So did Lodge.

Cooper followed.

Veronica leapt into Elizabeth Cooper’s arms. She held her awkwardly, and patted her back.

“I’m so sorry, Betty, I—“

“I—it’s fine, I—“

“Oh, _is_ it fine?” Jones asked. “Because I—“

He didn’t finish. A strange sound carried on the breeze. Sort of a rhythmic beating. A thumping. It took him a moment to recognize it.

Oh—it was a _helicopter_.

It came swooping over the low, old rooftops of Amsterdam. It was a Huey. American built. But painted black, without markings, national or otherwise.

The three unconsciously stepped away as the chopper thundered over the overpass down the road. The civilian cars caught in traffic stopped to look up at the great black bird. It growled and descended, directly towards them.

“Dutch police?” Cooper asked hopefully.

“I don’t think so,” Jones muttered. The Huey swept closer, rotors beating at the grey breeze. Jones picked out the armaments on its flanks. M60 machine guns. Rockets.

Shit.

“Get down!” he shouted.

The chopper’s machine guns whirred and opened up. Bullets ripped into the pavement and sidewalk. Pedestrians screamed and hurled themselves aside. Cars and trucks on the road were blown aside by the barrage. The stench of gun smoke, rent metal, and blood seeded the air. A hundred-foot stretch of road was suddenly transformed into a charnel house. Bodies littered the stones and the alleyways. Blood dripped into sewer grates. All along the street cars veered off to the side, far from the helicopter as they could. Jones threw himself into an alley by instinct. He saw Cooper stuff herself into a portico. Then he realized. The chopper wasn’t aiming its guns at them. It was trying to do just this—get them to run for cover. Get them to split up, for only a moment. He heard sirens in the distance. The helicopter banked hard and drew lower to the ground.

Veronica had backed off and hid behind a turned over truck.

Two soldiers in gas masks descended the helicopter’s rope ladder, boots hit the ground hard.

“Go, go, go!”

One of them shouted.

 _Shit_ , Jones thought. _Here we go again_.

Veronica sprang to her feet and tried to run.

The soldiers rushed after her. One of them easily closed the gap and grabbed her round the waist.

“ _Again_ , you assholes?” Veronica shrieked. They ported her easily to the waiting Huey, idling a dozen feet off of the ground. The first soldier handed up the kicking, yelling Veronica to the man waiting just inside the doors. Then he hopped up onto the ladder. His companion followed. The rotors sped up again.

The soldier yanked Veronica inside. Jones jumped out of cover. He still had one of the kidnappers’ pistols. He aimed. Took a potshot at the helicopter. It bounded harmlessly off of the rotor mast.

The helicopter started to climb. The soldiers began pulling up the rope. Jones’ heart sank. They were going to fail. After _all of this_ , they would fail. He raced towards the chopper. One of the gunmen raised a rifle and fired, glaring through the black eyes of his gas mask. Jones knew he would never make the ladder in time.

Then—Cooper vaulted over the hood of a destroyed car. She’d been closer than he. She sprinted the next thirty feet. The ladder was coming up. She grabbed the bottom rung. “Co—Betty!” he shouted. She didn’t answer. With rather impressive upper body strength, she hauled herself up two more rungs, swung her foot over the first, and began to climb the later.

From inside the helicopter, Veronica echoed Jones’ concerns and shouted: “Betty, what the hell are you d—“ only to be silenced when one of the men clapped a hand over her mouth.

The soldier nearest the doors aimed his rifle down to fire at Cooper.

The chopper climbed higher.

Forty feet off of the ground, now. Jones watched in awe.

The rifle went off.

_Crack! Crack!_

Both the man’s shots missed and sailed back to the ground. Cooper climbed one more rung. She released the rung with one hand, grabbed the barrel of the soldier’s rifle, and pulled. Hard. He lost his footing. Slipped. Tumbled out of the chopper, grasping vainly at the ladder, and hit the earth with a _crunch_.

There were three more men in the chopper. One at the controls, another at the guns, and a third in the back. The third men stepped forward, to try where his comrade had failed. He raised his rifle. Behind him, Veronica took her chance. They hadn’t had time to tie her feet or hands, so she leapt up and kicked the man in the base of the spine.

Like his companion, he flailed, dropped his rifle, and fell headlong out of the doors. He struck the ground twenty feet from the first man, with a similarly resounding _crack_ of bone. The helicopter was almost a hundred feet up, now. Jones watched Cooper, Veronica, and the pilots shrink. The panicking pilot began to pitch and yaw, desperately trying to shake off Cooper, who held steadfast to the hanging ladder. She ascended the next few rungs. Veronica helped her up.

And they were both in the helicopter.

Now Jones could see no more.

He heard a gunshot. Another gunshot. The chopper sailed away over Amsterdam’s old, renaissance crenellations and buttresses. The aircraft’s rockets _fired_. They tore out through the grey dawn, spiraling trails of white-slate smoke. Whipped up into the sky. Exploded in brilliant flashes of fire. Screaming from the ground. The sirens in the distance grew louder.

Then suddenly the helicopter stopped. For a moment, the rotors seemed to stall out. Then it banked. Turned. And was heading back towards them.

The helicopter dipped low. Began to descend. Landed right in the midst of all the carnage, burning cars and torn bodies. The struts hit the shattered pavement. Jones smiled. He walked towards the chopper.

The doors slid open. Out came the pilot, first, hands in the air. Behind him followed Cooper, holding a pistol to his head. Behind _her_ came Veronica, still shaken up, but looking rather triumphant.

Jones met them halfway across the street.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, truly impressed.

Cooper shrugged.

“You know,” Jones said. “I really think I am glad that I met you.”

She shrugged again.

“Well…I guess the feeling’s mutual.”

Veronica looked back and forth between them. Smiled.

Cooper threw the pilot to the ground. Jones pounced on him. Ripped off his mask. He had a simple, unassuming face. Nothing special at all about him. Except that he looked up at them with a blazing, wild determination. No mere mercenary.

“Alright, come on, let’s start talking!” Jones demanded.

The man sneered and spit. The glob of phlegm hit Jones’ shirt. He punched the pilot in the face. Cooper kneeled down next to him.

“And you can drop the whole ‘Russian’ act,” she said. “It’s not very convincing anymore.”

“Who are you working for?” Jones shook him by the collar. “The Red Queen?” The man said nothing, only smiled. Jones shook him harder. The pilot stuck his tongue into his cheek. Seemed to be fiddling with his molar. Jones hardly noticed. “Who are you?” he demanded again.

“We are the flood,” the man hissed. Then Jones realized what he’d done. He rolled the false tooth to the front of his mouth. A cyanide capsule. Jones scrambled for the pilot’s lips, fought to remove it. Too late.

“No!” Jones shouted.

 _Crunch_.

Almost immediately, the man’s body seized up. His eyes rolled in his head. A dribble of foaming saliva trickled out from the corner of his mouth. He shuddered. “The end of all flesh is come,” he managed to croak. Then he fell back onto the pavement, a corpse.

“Shit,” Cooper sighed.

“Well that’s…ominous,” Jones said.

He stood.

“Alright, Miss Lodge,” he said to Veronica, who crossed her arms. “That’s _two_ times we’ve saved your life, now, against _two_ times you’ve tried to kill us. That’s a hell of a debt. So I hope you’re ready to answer a hell of a lot of questions, because—“

“ _First_ of all, Jughead,” Cooper said. And he was a little surprised, because he had not expected her to every use the name. “We should probably get out of here before the Dutch Police arrive.”

“Right,” he said. “Elizabeth.”

“Betty, remember?”

“So you’re on first name bases now?” Veronica asked.

Jones glared at her.

“Let’s go,” he said.

They slipped away a few minutes ahead of the woefully unprepared Amsterdam police force.

* * *

In a little cafe a few miles away, the two spies and their new charge settled down at a corner table, affording regular furtive over-the-shoulder glances.

“Legally, neither of us are supposed to be here,” Betty elaborated on the situation for Veronica’s benefit. The brunette nodded along.

“Well, legally I’m not supposed to do the vast majority of things that I do or be in the vast majority of places that I am,” Jones said. “But right now I don’t even get the wink and the nod’s worth of consent from my government that I usually do.

Veronica nodded.

“So,” Jones said. “Tell us. Whose men were those? The Red Queen? Who is the Red Queen? What is—“

Veronica raised a hand, motioning for silence.

“Let’s take this slow. Who’s the Red Queen? We know she’s at work here, one way or another. An arms dealer, like your father, isn’t she? We—“

Veronica shook her head.

“Not dealer,” she said. “ _Manufacturer_. The Red Queen is Cheryl Blossom.”

Jones eyes widened.

 _Cheryl Blossom_.

 _"_ Cheryl fucking Blossom, eh?” he said. "Christ, I should've figured  _that_."

“I—I’m sorry, who?” Betty asked.

Jones leaned in.

“Countrywoman of yours, actually? You’ve never heard of her?”

Betty shook her head ‘no’.

“Sweetwater Tech?” Jones suggested. Still nothing. “Blossom’s half-German, half-American. Lives in Europe, though. Her father, Clifford, founded Sweetwater Industries and Technology a few decades ago, now. They made a fortune selling tanks and rifles to the Allies during the last war—“

“And, as rumor has it, to the Axis as well,” Veronica added. “Under the table, of course.”

“Right,” Jones agreed. “Well, Clifford Blossom’s oldest and only son died in an accident about ten years ago. A year after _that_ , Clifford himself, along with his wife, perished in a mysterious and poorly investigated plane crash, as I recall. Thus leaving Cheryl, at the tender age of eighteen, to take the reins of the family company.”

“Are you saying she _killed_ them?” Betty asked.

Jones shrugged.

“Who am I to cast aspersions on a lady’s character?”

Betty sighed.

“So, why does she want you dead?” Betty asked Veronica.

Veronica took a deep breath.

“She hired my father to kidnap Doiley, okay? She wanted as many proxies between herself and the deed as possible. The plan was—as I’m sure you’ve figured out—to stage the abduction as a Soviet operation. Volkhov was pretty easy for us to bribe. Once we’d left his body at the scene, it was assumed—or _hoped_ at least—that the US would just take the whole mess at face value, not dig _too_ deep. Then _you two_ started snooping around. Blossom got _mad_ , decided to try to wrap up all the loose ends. Including me and my father.”

“And what does she want with Doiley?” Jones demanded.

“I don’t know,” Veronica said. Before he could accuse her of lying, as indeed, he was about do, she raised a hand in oath. “Hand to God, I don’t know. Maybe she wants to break into the nuclear energy business? It’s possible. It’s always all about the money with these people. Trust me, I know.”

“What if she wants to build a nuclear weapon?” Betty asked.

“What if she does? Maybe she does,” Veronica said. “Like I already told you, I don’t _know_. I’m sure a nuclear warhead fetches a pretty penny on the black market, right?” She shrugged.

“Well,” Jones said. “I guess we’ll have to be paying Miss Blossom a visit, won’t we?” He fixed Betty with his gaze. She smiled.

Veronica snorted and laughed.

“Your funerals! Seriously—I wouldn’t recommend it. Take that magnanimous advice as my gratitude for your saving my _life_.”

“Well I’m already risking my job and very likely my freedom to be here,” Jones said. “Damned if I don’t follow the thing through to the end.”

“I’m not going to stop you,” Veronica said.

“Where would we find her?” Betty asked.

“She lives in Switzerland,” Veronica said. “Most of the time, at least. Really lovely chateau. Mountains covered in snow. Or so I hear. I've never been. You might catch her in Zurich, though. That’s where my father and I met her, at least. The one time we did.” She seemed unnerved by the memory. “God help you.”

“What’s she like?” Betty asked. “You know…in case we—“

“A bit like me, Betty,” Veronica said. “But far worse, I assure you.”

“Off to Zurich, then?” Jones said.

“I suppose,” Betty said.

“And me?” Veronica asked. “You’re not just going to throw me back to the wolves after all of this?”

“Tempting as that option is…” Jones said.

Veronica narrowed her eyes at him.

“ _No_ , V,” Betty said. “We’ll…” her voice trailed off, as she realized she in fact had no idea _what_ they would do with her.

They thought for a moment. Jones had a thought. More clement than he was usually inclined to be, but what the hell?

“We’ll send you to England,” he said.

“Sorry?” Veronica asked.

“England. I may not be on the best of terms with MI6 at the moment, but if I can convince them you’re not worthless practically speaking, they’ll probably try to keep you alive at the very least, if not comfortable. I’ll see if I can get Archie to stand guard over you.”

Veronica raised her eyebrow.

“Archie? The hands—the redhead from Nice?”

“Yeah,” Jones said. “You _did_ try to kill him in Nice, but he’s never really been one to hold a grudge. Especially against good-looking girls.”

She scoffed.

“Woah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

Jones made a call to Archie, an hour later, before leaving Amsterdam.

“Yeah. You’ve really done it, this time,” Archie said.

“ _This_ time?”

“The Director’s trying his level best to keep the _Prime Minister_ from branding you a _traitor_ and sending one of us to go hunt you down.”

“I’d appreciate not being hunted down,” Jones said dryly.

“Yeah, I’m sure you would. I’m not even supposed to be _talking_ to you right now. I could—“

“Listen, Archie…I know this isn’t a good time but…I have another favor to ask you. It’s not for me, really?”

A long silence. A sigh.

“What is it?”

“Veronica Lodge.”

“The girl who tri—“

“ _Yes_ , the one who tried to kill us. Though, in all fairness, it _was_ more her father than her.Personally—that being considered—I’m not particularly invested in her welfare, but—she _is_ an old friend of Miss Cooper’s, and so I thought I’d do her the favor of—“

“And since when do you do people favors, Jug?”

“Since I—“

“I never, ever, once, thought I would _ever_ have to tell _you_ this, but good God, you aren’t developing _emotional attachments_ on the job, are you?”

He huffed.

“No—listen, I’m sending Veronica Lodge to England. Convince the suits she’s worth something. That they need her alive.”

Another silence.

“Yeah, sure, Jug. No sweat.” Then: “listen—they’re pissed, but we’ve also got a lot more on our plate. This thing in Cuba is really getting bad, I mean—Jesus, none of this is going to mean much of anything if Washington and Moscow start lobbing nuclear missiles. What I’m trying to say is—as long as this thing is going down, you probably have more or less a free hand to do whatever it is you need to do. Because we’re too busy here to bring you back into line.”

Jones thought for a second. That was a word he’d been hearing a lot lately. Nuclear. Doiley.

“You know, Arch—I think this Doiley business might have more than a little to do with the mess in Cuba. Don’t quote me on it yet, but—“

“Look, Jug. I trust you. Maybe I _shouldn’t_ , but I do. Whatever it is you’re doing over there, I trust it’s important.”

Jones sighed.

“Thanks.”

“Godspeed, Jug.”

* * *

_1648 hours GMT_

_Chateau Blossom, Alps, Switzerland_

_October 19th, 1962_

Cheryl Blossom held the black cat in her lap, gently stroking that sweet spot just behind the ears. He purred occasionally, nestling down against her thighs. Cheryl cooed sweetly into the animal’s ear.

Then suddenly, Salem hissed and slid out of her lap. Cheryl sighed. “Blasted animal,” she growled.

Salem leapt back into Sabrina’s arms. The blonde held the cat close to her chest.

“It’s okay, Salem,” she said.

Cheryl rolled her eyes. Her lieutenant’s cat was never particularly fond of her.

She turned her attention to the man before her desk. Tall, dark, kind of a vampiric smile that he could never seem to wipe away.

Malachi, her intelligence chief. 

“So,” Cheryl began, and she saw Malachi’s whole body tense. “Dear friend Malachi, news from the front? How goes our progress?”

“All according to plan,” he said, vampiric smile growing. His teeth flashed in the plain light of her office. “As usual.”

“Lodge escaped?” Cheryl asked. She reached under her desk. Produced a bottle of red Rhineland wine. Her father’s old collection. Produced a sparkling clean glass. Poured herself a drink.

“Yeah. The guys we sent in are all dead,” Malachi said.

Cheryl nodded.

“Good, good. And where is dear, sweet Veronica off to?”

“Jones and Cooper are thinking on sending her to England. Under protection of MI6.”

Cheryl threw her head back and laughed. MI6. The CIA. The Stasi. KGB. Useless, all of them. Like little boys playing soldier. She had loyal comrades honeycombing each and every intelligence service on the planet. At least, those intelligence services worth her time. Her people were everywhere.

“Under protection of MI6! Oh, Malachi, please do tell me some some more marvelous jokes like that one!”

He gave her an odd look.

“What…like…now?”

“Uh—“ Sabrina interrupted. “How did my…you know…the GLAMOUR work?”

“Yes, Malachi,” Cheryl said, leaning back in her seat. “How _did_ Spellcaster’s little toys work?”

Sabrina didn’t particularly like being referred to as ‘Spellcaster’, but it was part of the aesthetic Cheryl was going for, and everyone in her employ had learned better than to question her decisions—strategic _or_ aesthetic—by now .

Malachi shrugged.

“Well—from far off, looked like the gas disoriented Jones a little. Not much more. He was still able to disarm and kill about five of my men in the next twenty minutes. And his blondie friend took down a helicopter. So…”

Sabrina rubbed her chin.

“I guess the hallucinogen wasn’t strong enough. I don’t think the plant extract was as refined as it— _should_ have been. It’ll take more work.” She flinched in anticipation of her boss’s reaction.

Cheryl just fixed her with an annoyed glare.

“Yes,” she hissed. “It _will_.”

Malachi piped up.

“So about the Lodge girl…you want us to go take care of her in England, or…”

Cheryl shook her head.

“Forget about it. She doesn’t matter anymore. She’s served her purpose.” Cheryl leaned back in her seat. “I assume Cooper and Jones will be knocking on our proverbial—and literal—doors shortly?”

“Ought to be the case,” Malachi said, scratching the back of his head.

“Good,” Cheryl half-hissed.

In Sabrina’s arms, Salem purred.

“Anything you need me to do in the mean time?” He asked.

She waved her hand in dismissal.

“I don’t think so, now. Except—make sure the compound is all cleaned up and looking nice. When our guests finally arrive, I want the premises to be _gleaming_.” She grinned. “Let it never be said that I was a _poor_ hostess.”

Malachi’s devil smile widened.

“Right,” he said. And he saluted, turned and went.

Cheryl spun around in her chair. The recent renovations had included a great bay window installed behind her desk. It provided a lovely view of the snow-dusted alps and the pine trees curling over the crest a few miles off. When the sun rose and glanced off of the snow, it was truly breathtaking to look on. And it really impelled her to soldier on through her work. The world needed her.

After a moment looking over the Alps, Cheryl stood. She clasped her hands behind her back, ramrod straight, perfectly still. Prussian discipline.

Then she spun around.

“Spellcaster?” she called.

“Yes?” Sabrina inclined her head.

“Walk with me.”

She didn’t have much of a choice, so the two strolled off together. Cheryl hit a button on the wall. The doors slid open with a hiss. They exited Cheryl’s study into the complex proper.

The grand Swiss chateau had been her father’s, a rustic old wood-and-stone mansion built into the slope of a broad-faced mountain and set towards the rising sun..They had come here often, when they were still a _family_. Cheryl could and always would remember skiing with Jason beneath the slow-laden branches of Stone-pines, or toting rifles through a snow-drift with her father, on the bloody trail of a wounded deer.

Happier times. But destiny called—there was little time for pleasure any more, save that pleasure she gleaned from the completions of her cosmic, divine duty.

Ever since she’d seized control of the company and set the Blossom clan’s near boundless resources to the fulfillment of her self-imposed purpose, she’d ordered a few serious renovations of her old vacation home.

Cheryl had affected the construction of a massive winding, inter-locking complex of corridors, bunkers, and leisure rooms built through the bowels of the mountain, all but hidden from outside observers, save for the long, low windows set in the stone.

Beneath that, she’d ordered the construction of a capacious aerodrome, both for her personal jet, the small fleet of helicopters she owned, and also the myriad military aircraft she’d seen fit to construct or purchase over the past few years.

And beneath that, a little to the east, hidden beneath the rows of trees and the gently rolling white hills, her _real_ raison d’être.

She and Sabrina stepped out into an arrow-straight corridor lit by fluorescent blue lights, lined with steel-reinforced doors. A patrol of her guardsmen passed her by, dressed in their pitch-black fatigues and dark gas masks. They saluted rigidly as she passed, and she lazily returned the gesture.

Cheryl’s men came from all over—Americans, Russians, Germans, Italians, Chinese, Argentinian. Only the best. Ex-special forces, usually. Ex-internal security, secret policemen, often. Artisans of death and ruin. Warriors worthy of Wallhal. They came for the money at first—she paid well. But in the end, she was always able to make them see the light of her cause. Even if she had to take a white-hot dagger to their eyes.

“Is Dr. Doiley still playing ball?” Cheryl asked.

She and Sabrina stepped into the elevator. It started downwards, towards the basement.

“Ah—well he’s still not _happy_ that you kidnapped him at gunpoint but I think he’s _adjusting_ , you know. We haven’t had an escape attempt in a week. That’s good.”

“Indeed!”

The elevator clicked and the bell rang.

The bottom level of the complex was where the magic happened. Cheryl had asked that it be built wide and low in style, like an airplane hangar. With red lighting of course. Then it was divided up into a number of separate wings, each housing a different branch of her personal RTD department.

Like Sabrina’s own passion project—the hallucinogenic gas (codenamed ‘GLAMOUR’), meant to amplify feelings of terror and distort perception—which was apparently, as its performance in Amsterdam would indicate, less potent than hoped.

But most important of all was the project for which Cheryl needed Doiley. They strolled down the steel and glass hallways of the great basement. Clusters of guardsmen passed them by.

At the end of the complex was Doiley’s ‘work space’, where he labored under watch of a dozen armed soldiers, ‘aided’ by a team of Cheryl’s most trusted researchers, who would make damn sure the good doctor never got any funny ideas about sabotage or flight.

Doiley was bent over a table, scratching notes and equations—as well as a few rough sketches for a triggering device—onto a few pieces of rumpled onionskin paper. He whirled around as his new boss approached.

“Dr. Doiley!” Cheryl called sweetly. She waved. He saluted, sweat trickling down his cheeks. “How’s our progress?”

He grimaced.

She always said that.

“Our.”

“ _Our_ ” progress.

“Our” progress, as if he were an enthusiastic participant in her madcap scheming.

“It’s coming along fine,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Except—well, the only real problem left is the guidance system. I can’t seem to get it to track the coordinates just right, or at least not for very long,and you _don’t_ want it coming down in the wrong place.” He laughed nervously.

A shadow crossed Cheryl’s face.

“My _dear_ Doctor. I would _implore_ you remember I am _on a schedule here_. We do not have an eternity! We must strike the iron while it is hot! The conditions—global conditions—are _perfect_ , and if we miss our chance _now_ , we will _never_ see another like it! And I will _not_ have my life’s work rendered futile because of a _faulty guidance system_!”

She shook a fist at the poor, terrified doctor, who took a few unconscious steps back. Even the guards, in their masks and rifles, backed away. Sabrina shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“I—we—we’re working hard on solving it,” Doiley stammered. “Sorry ma’a—miss—mast—er, it’s just—missile technology is complex. And since I wasn’t able to bring any of my _work_ with me when you—er— _employed_ me, I’ve had to build a lot from scratch.”

Cheryl rocked back on her heels and sighed.

“Doctor, the missiles  _and_ the warheads  _must_ be ready before October is out, do you understand me? If they are _not_ , it's  _your_ head!”

He swallowed. The soldiers with their guns took steps closer.

“Yes, miss,” he finally said. “I will double my efforts.”

“See to it that you do.”

She turned around and snapped her fingers and walked off. Sabrina followed on her heels.

“Come, Spellcaster.”

They left Doiley to his work.

“About the GLAMOUR—“ Sabrina started.

Cheryl placed a comforting hand on her upper arm.

“Dear Spellcaster,” she crooned,. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not treading the same thin ice the good doctor is.” 

“I’ll look into refining the plant extract like I said,” she offered. “Ambr—uh, my cousin can probably arrange for the next shipment to contain a lot more mescaline. That’s the big thing, I think, but—“

“As I said, it’s fine. And don’t worry—you’ll have occasion to test its potency soon enough. On the very same subject, too!” Cheryl took a moment to laugh heartily. That powerful, victorious laugh she’d been practicing for a very long time and damn near perfected.

Sabrina nodded. Then she shuffled off, quickly. Cheryl was quite sure she scared the poor woman sometimes. It was too bad. Cheryl actually liked her, and she didn’t like most people. She was a talented chemist.

Cheryl went out onto the veranda. It was part of the chateau’s original construction. Her father would sit here with his pipe, muttering about politics and trade deals.

She sat down in his old wicker chair and lit a cigarette. The setting sun warmed her face, as it rolled over her head and sank beneath the mountain peaks. She felt good.

She was only twenty-eight years old, and could fairly count herself as one of the most powerful individuals on the planet. And only a handful of people knew it. Blossom was not quite a household one, like Ford or Morgan or Warburg. If you followed finance or politics with any diligence, you’d likely be familiar with the family, but that was all.

Even if you were, you would know only that Cheryl Blossom was the young head of a stable and successful defense and advanced technologies firm. You would not know of the vast and well-integrated army of spies she kept sprinkled through the ranks of every rival company, every world government, every intelligence agency across the planet. You would not know who she was  _really_ selling tanks and warplanes and artillery to. You would not know that the massive fortune she'd inherited and grown was only a means to an end. It could all be sacrificed, and it  _would_ be. She had a  _purpose_. A  _real_ purpose. A purpose a  _lifetime_ in the making. It was all coming together at last. The perfect storm. Her moles in the halls of Washington, Moscow, London, Berlin, Havana, Paris, Ankara, Rome, had done their good work. She directed the fate of nations. It felt good.

She puffed on her cigarette. The sun finally disappeared in a flash. 

All according to plan. All mankind moved in an eerie synchronicity according to _her_ plan, and they did not even know it. She was in control.

She was  _always_ in control. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wanted to write supervillain Cheryl. She's just perfect for the role.


End file.
